WHEN    LOVE    CALLS 


WHEN   LOVE  CALLS 


BY 

STANLEY   J.  WEYMAN 

AUTHOR  OF    "    A    GENTLEMAN    OF    FRANCE,"     "THE 
CASTLE    INN,"     ETC.,    ETC. 


BOSTON 
BROWN   AND    COMPANY 

144  PURCHASE  STREET 
1899 


Copyright,  1899 
BY  BROWN   AND  COMPANY 


JEnitorottg 

JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON,  CAMBRIDGE,  U.  S.  A. 


Contents 

WHEN  LOVE  CALLS  PAGE 

I.   HER  STORY I 

II.  His  STORY 23 

A  STRANGE  INVITATION 45 

THE  INVISIBLE  PORTRAITS 75 

ALONG  THE  GARONNE 107 


2138755 


When  Love  Calls 
9 


HER    STORY 

,"  I  said, "  I  wish  that  we  had  brought 
some   better  clothes,    if  it  were  only  one 
frock.     You   look  the   oddest   figure." 

And  she  did.  She  was  lying  head  to  head  with 
me  on  the  thick  moss  that  clothed  one  part  of  the 
river-bank  above  Breistolen  near  the  Sogn  Fiord. 
We  were  staying  at  Breistolen,  but  there  was  no 
moss  thereabouts,  nor  in  all  the  Sogn  district,  I 
often  thought,  so  deep  and  soft,  and  so  dazzling 
orange  and  white  and  crimson  as  that  particular 
patch.  It  lay  quite  high  upon  the  hills,  and  there 
were  great  gray  boulders  peeping  through  the  moss 
here  and  there,  very  fit  to  break  your  legs  if  you 
were  careless.  Little  more  than  a  mile  higher  up 
was  the  watershed,  where  our  river,  putting  away 
with  reluctance  a  first  thought  of  going  down  the 
farther  slope  towards  Bysberg,  parted  from  its  twin 


When  Love  Calls 

brother  who  was  thither  bound  with  scores  upon 
scores  of  puny  green-backed  fishlets ;  and  instead, 
came  down  our  side  gliding  and  swishing,  and 
swirling  faster  and  faster,  and  deeper  and  wider, 
every  hundred  yards  to  Breistolen,  full  of  red- 
speckled  yellow  trout  all  half-a-pound  apiece,  and 
very  good  to  eat. 

But  they  were  not  so  sweet  or  toothsome  to 
our  girlish  tastes  as  the  tawny-orange  cloud-berries 
which  Clare  and  I  were  eating  as  we  lay.  So  busy 
was  sh.e  with  the  luscious  pile  we  had  gathered  that 
I  had  to  wait  for  an  answer.  And  then,  "  Speak 
for  yourself,"  she  said.  "  I  'm  sure  you  look  like 
a  short-coated  baby.  He  is  somewhere  up  the 
river  too."  Munch,  munch,  munch  ! 

"  Who  is,  you  impertinent,  greedy  little  chit  ?  " 

"  Oh,  you  know,"  she  answered.  "  Don't  you 
wish  you  had  your  gray  plush  here,  Bab  ?  " 

I  flung  a  look  of  calm  disdain  at  her;  but 
whether  it  was  the  berry  juice  which  stained  our 
faces  that  took  from  its  effect,  or  the  free  mountain 
air  which  papa  says  saps  the  foundations  of  despo- 
tism, that  made  her  callous,  at  any  rate  she  only 
laughed  scornfully  and  got  up  and  went  off  down 
the  stream  with  her  rod,  leaving  me  to  finish  the 
cloud-berries,  and  stare  lazily  up  at  the  snow 


Her  Story 

patches  on  the  hillside  —  which  somehow  put  me 
in  mind  of  the  gray  plush  —  and  follow  or  not  as 
I  liked. 

Clare  has  a  wicked  story  of  how  I  gave  in  to 
papa,  and  came  to  start  without  anything  but  those 
rough  clothes.  She  says  he  said  —  and  Jack 
Buchanan  has  told  me  that  lawyers  put  no  faith  in 
anything  that  he  says  she  says,  or  she  says  he  says, 
which  proves  how  much  truth  there  is  in  this  — 
that  if  Bab  took  none  but  her  oldest  clothes,  and 
fished  all  day  and  had  no  one  to  run  upon  her 
errands  —  he  meant  Jack  and  the  others,  I  suppose 
—  she  might  possibly  grow  an  inch  in  Norway. 
Just  as  if  I  wanted  to  grow  an  inch  !  An  inch 
indeed  !  I  am  five  feet  one  and  a  half  high,  and 
papa,  who  puts  me  an  inch  shorter,  is  the  worst 
measurer  in  the  world.  As  for  Miss  Clare,  she 
would  give  all  her  inches  for  my  eyes.  So  there  ! 

After  Clare  left,  it  began  to  be  dull  and  chilly. 
When  I  had  pictured  to  myself  how  nice  it  would 
be  to  dress  for  dinner  again,  and  chosen  the  frock 
I  would  wear  upon  the  first  evening,  I  grew  tired 
of  the  snow  patches,  and  started  up  stream,  stum- 
bling and  falling  into  holes,  and  clambering  over 
rocks,  and  only  careful  to  save  my  rod  and  my 
face.  It  was  no  occasion  for  the  gray  plush,  but 
3 


When  Love  Calls 

I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  reach  a  pool  which  lay, 
I  knew,  a  little  above  me,  having  filched  a  yellow- 
bodied  fly  from  Clare's  hat  with  a  view  to  that 
particular  place. 

Our  river  did  the  oddest  things  hereabouts  — 
pleased  to  be  so  young,  I  suppose.  It  was  not  a 
great  churning  stream  of  snow  water  foaming  and 
milky,  such  as  we  had  seen  in  some  parts,  streams 
that  affected  to  be  always  in  flood,  and  had  the 
look  of  forcing  the  rocks  asunder  and  clearing  their 
path  even  while  you  watched  them  with  your  fingers 
in  your  ears.  Our  river  was  none  of  these  :  still 
it  was  swifter  than  English  rivers  are  wont  to  be, 
and  in  parts  deeper,  and  transparent  as  glass.  In 
one  place  it  would  sweep  over  a  ledge  and  fall 
wreathed  in  spray  into  a  spreading  lake  of  black, 
rock-bound  water.  Then  it  would  narrow  again 
until,  where  you  could  almost  jump  across,  it  darted 
smooth  and  unbroken  down  a  polished  shoot  with 
a  swoop  like  a  swallow's.  Out  of  this  it  would 
hurry  afresh  to  brawl  along  a  gravelly  bed,  skipping 
jauntily  over  first  one  and  then  another  ridge  of 
stones  that  had  silted  up  weir-wise  and  made  as  if 
they  would  bar  the  channel.  Under  the  lee  of 
these  there  were  lovely  pools. 

To  be  able  to  throw  into  mine,  I  had  to  walk 
4 


Her  Story 

out  along  the  ridge  on  which  the  water  was  shallow, 
yet  sufficiently  deep  to  cover  my  boots.  But  I  was 
well  rewarded.  The  "  forellin "  —  the  Norse 
name  for  trout,  and  as  pretty  as  their  girls'  wavy 
fair  hair  —  were  rising  so  merrily  that  I  hooked  and 
landed  one  in  five  minutes,  the  fly  falling  from  its 
mouth  as  it  touched  the  stones.  I  hate  taking  out 
hooks.  I  used  at  one  time  to  leave  the  fly  in  the 
fish's  mouth  to  be  removed  by  papa  at  the  weigh- 
ing house  ;  until  Clare  pricked  her  tongue  at  dinner 
with  an  almost  new,  red  tackle,  and  was  so  mean 
as  to  keep  it,  though  I  remembered  then  what  I 
had  done  with  it,  and  was  certain  it  was  mine  — 
which  was  nothing  less  than  dishonest  of  her. 

I  had  just  got  back  to  my  place  and  made  a  fine 
cast,  when  there  came  —  not  the  leap,  and  splash, 
and  tug  which  announced  the  half-pounder  —  but 
a  deep,  rich  gurgle  as  the  fly  was  gently  sucked 
under,  and  then  a  quiet,  growing  strain  upon  the 
line,  which  began  to  move  away  down  the  pool  in 
a  way  that  made  the  winch  spin  again  and  filled  me 
with  mysterious  pleasure.  I  was  not  conscious  of 
striking  or  of  anything  but  that  I  had  hooked  a 
really  good  fish,  and  I  clutched  the  rod  with  both 
hands  and  set  my  feet  as  tightly  as  I  could  upon 
the  slippery  gravel.  The  line  moved  up  and  down, 


When  Love  Calls 

and  this  way  and  that,  now  steadily  and  as  with  a 
purpose,  and  then  again  with  an  eccentric  rush  that 
made  the  top  of  the  rod  spring  and  bend  so  that 
I  looked  for  it  to  snap  each  moment.  My  hands 
began  to  grow  numb,  and  the  landing-net,  hitherto 
an  ornament,  fell  out  of  my  waist-belt  and  went  I 
knew  not  whither.  I  suppose  I  must  have  stepped 
unwittingly  into  deeper  water,  for  I  felt  that  my 
skirts  were  afloat,  and  altogether  things  were  going 
dreadfully  against  me,  when  the  presence  of  an  ally 
close  at  hand  was  announced  by  a  cheery  shout 
from  the  far  side  of  the  river. 

"Keep  up  your  point !  Keep  up  your  point  !  " 
some  one  cried  briskly.  "  That  is  better !  " 

The  unexpected  sound  —  it  was  a  man's  voice  — 
did  something  to  keep  my  heart  up.  But  for 
answer  I  could  only  shriek,  "  I  can't !  It  will 
break  !  "  watching  the  top  of  my  rod  as  it  jigged 
up  and  down,  very  much  in  the  fashion  of  Clare 
performing  what  she  calls  a  waltz.  She  dances  as 
badly  as  a  man. 

41  No,  it  will  not,"  he  cried  back,  bluntly. 
"  Keep  it  up,  and  let  out  a  little  line  with  your 
fingers  when  he  pulls  hardest." 

We  were  forced  to  shout  and  scream.  The 
wind  had  risen  and  was  adding  to  the  noise  of  the 
6 


Her  Story 

water.  Soon  I  heard  him  wading  behind  me. 
"  Where  's  your  landing  net  ?  "  he  asked,  with  the 
most  provoking  coolness. 

"  Oh,  in  the  pool !  Somewhere  about.  I  am 
sure  I  don't  know,"  I  answered  wildly. 

What  he  said  to  this  I  could  not  catch,  but  it 
sounded  rude.  And  then  he  waded  off  to  fetch,  as 
I  guessed,  his  own  net.  By  the  time  he  reached 
me  again  I  was  in  a  sad  plight,  feet  like  ice,  and 
hands  benumbed,  while  the  wind,  and  rain,  and 
hail,  which  had  come  down  upon  us  with  a  sudden 
violence,  unknown,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  anywhere  else, 
were  mottling  my  face  all  sorts  of  unbecoming 
colors.  But  the  line  was  taut.  And  wet  and 
cold  went  for  nothing  five  minutes  later,  when  the 
fish  lay  upon  the  bank,  its  prismatic  sides  slowly 
turning  pale  and  dull,  and  I  knelt  over  it  half  in 
pity  and  half  in  triumph,  but  wholly  forgetful  of 
the  wind  and  rain. 

"  You  did  that  very  pluckily,  little  one,"  said  the 
on-looker ;  "  but  I  am  afraid  you  will  suffer  for  it 
by  and  by.  You  must  be  chilled  through." 

Quickly  as  I  looked  up  at  him,  I  only  met  a 

good-humored    smile.      He   did    not    mean    to    be 

rude.     And,  after  all,  when  I  was  in  such  a  mess 

it  was  not  possible  that   he   could   see    what   I  was 

7 


When  Love  Calls 

like.  He  was  wet  enough  himself.  The  rain  was 
streaming  from  the  brim  of  the  soft  hat  which  he 
had  turned  down  to  shelter  his  face,  and  trickling 
from  his  chin,  and  turning  his  shabby  Norfolk 
jacket  a  darker  shade.  As  for  his  hands,  they 
looked  red  and  knuckly  enough,  and  he  had  been 
wading  almost  to  his  waist.  But  he  looked,  I  don't 
know  why,  all  the  stronger  and  manlier  and  nicer 
for  these  things,  because,  perhaps,  he  cared  for  them 
not  one  whit.  What  I  looked  like  myself  I  dared 
not  think.  My  skirts  were  as  short  as  short  could 
be,  and  they  were  soaked :  most  of  my  hair  was 
unplaited,  my  gloves  were  split,  and  my  sodden 
boots  were  out  of  shape.  I  was  forced,  too,  to 
shiver  and  shake  from  cold  ;  which  was  provoking, 
for  I  knew  it  made  me  seem  half  as  small  again. 

"Thank  you,  I  am  a  little  cold,  Mr. , 

Mr. ,"  I  said,  grave,  only  my  teeth  would 

chatter  so  that  he  laughed  outright  as  he  took  me 
up  with  — 

"  Herapath.  And  to  whom  have  I  the  honor 
of  speaking  ? " 

"  I  am  Miss  Guest,"  I  said,  miserably.  It  was 
too  cold  to  be  frigid  to  advantage. 

"  Commonly  called  Bab,  I  think,"  the  wretch 
answered.  "  The  walls  of  our  hut  are  not  sound- 
8 


Her  Story 

proof,  you  see.  But,  come,  the  sooner  you  get 
back  to  dry  clothes  and  the  stove,  the  better,  Bab. 
You  can  cross  the  river  just  below,  and  cut  off 
half-a-mile  that  way." 

"  I  can't,"  I  said,  obstinately.  Bab,  indeed ! 
How  dared  he  ? 

"•  Oh,  yes,  you  can,"  with  intolerable  good- 
temper.  "  You  shall  take  your  rod  and  I  the  prey. 
You  cannot  be  wetter  than  you  are  now." 

He  had  his  way,  of  course,  since  I  did  not  foresee 
that  at  the  ford  he  would  lift  me  up  bodily  and 
carry  me  over  the  deeper  part  without  a  pretence 
of  asking  leave,  or  a  word  of  apology.  It  was 
done  so  quickly  that  I  had  no  time  to  remonstrate. 
Still  I  was  not  going  to  let  it  pass,  and  when  I  had 
shaken  myself  straight  again,  I  said,  with  all  the 
haughtiness  I  could  assume,  "  Don't  you  think, 
Mr.  Herapath,  that  it  would  have  been  more  — 
more  —  " 

"  Polite  to  offer  to  carry  you  over,  child  ?  No, 
not  at  all.  It  will  be  wiser  and  warmer  for  you  to 
run  down  the  hill.  Come  along!  " 

And  without  more  ado,  while  I  was  still  chok- 
ing with  rage,  he  seized  my  hands  and  set  off  at  a 
trot,  lugging  me  through  the  sloppy  places  much 
as  I  have  seen  a  nurse  drag  a  fractious  child  down 
9 


When  Love  Calls 

Constitution  Hill.  It  was  not  wonderful  that  I 
soon  lost  the  little  breath  his  speech  had  left  me, 
and  was  powerless  to  complain  when  we  reached 
the  bridge.  I  could  only  thank  heaven  that  there 
was  no  sign  of  Clare.  I  think  I  should  have  died 
of  mortification  if  she  had  seen  us  come  down  the 
hill  hand-in-hand  in  that  ridiculous  fashion.  But 
she  had  gone  home,  and  at  any  rate  I  escaped  that 
degradation. 

A  wet  stool-car  and  wetter  pony  were  dimly 
visible  on  the  bridge ;  to  which,  as  we  came  up, 
a  damp  urchin  creeping  from  some  crevice  added 
himself.  I  was  pushed  in  as  if  I  had  no  will  of 
my  own,  the  gentleman  sprang  up  beside  me,  the 
boy  tucked  himself  away  somewhere  behind,  and 
the  little. "  teste  "  set  off  at  a  canter,  so  deceived 
by  the  driver's  excellent  imitation  of  "  Pss,"  the 
Norse  for  "  Tchk,"  that  in  ten  minutes  we  were 
at  home. 

"Well,  I  never!"  Clare  said,  surveying  me 
from  a  respectful  distance,  when  at  last  I  was  safe 
in  our  room.  "  I  would  not  be  seen  in  such  a 
state  by  a  man  for  all  the  fish  in  the  sea !  " 

And  she  looked  so  tall,  and  trim,  and  neat,  that 
it  was  the  more  provoking.  At  the  moment  I  was 
too  miserable  to  answer  her,  and  had  to  find  com- 
10 


Her  Story 

fort  in  promising  myself,  that  when  we  were  back 
in  Bolton  Gardens  I  would  see  that  Fraulein  kept 
Miss  Clare's  pretty  nose  to  the  grindstone  though 
it  were  ever  so  much  her  last  term,  or  Jack  were 
ever  so  fond  of  her.  Papa  was  in  the  plot  against 
me,  too.  What  right  had  he  to  thank  Mr.  Hera- 
path  for  bringing  "  his  little  girl "  home  safe  ? 
He  can  be  pompous  enough  at  times.  I  never 
knew  a  stout  Queen's  Counsel  —  and  papa  is  stout 

—  who  was  not,   any  more  than  a  thin  one,  who 
did    not    contradict.       It    is    in    their     patents,    I 
think. 

Mr.  Herapath  dined  with  us  that  evening  — 
if  fish  and  potatoes  and  boiled  eggs,  and  sour  bread 
and  pancakes,  and  claret  and  coffee  can  be  called 
a  dinner  —  but  nothing  I  could  do,  though  I  made 
the  best  of  my  wretched  frock  and  was  as  stiff  as 
Clare  herself,  could  alter  his  first  impression.  It 
was  too  bad  :  he  had  no  eyes  !  He  either  could 
not  or  would  not  see  any  one  but  the  draggled  Bab 

—  fifteen  at  most  and  a  very  tom-boy  —  whom  he 
had  carried  across  the  river.      He  styled  Clare,  who 
talked   Baedeker  to  him  in  her  primmest  and  most 
precocious  way,  Miss  Guest,  and  once  at  least  dur- 
ing the   evening  dubbed  me  plain  Bab.      I  tried  to 
freeze  him  with  a  look  then,  and  papa  gave  him  a 


When  Love  Calls 

taste  of  the  pompous  manner,  saying  coldly  that  I 
was  older  than  I  seemed.  But  it  was  not  a  bit  of 
use :  I  could  see  that  he  set  it  all  down  to  the 
grand  airs  of  a  spoiled  child.  If  I  had  put  my 
hair  up,  it  might  have  opened  his  eyes,  but  Clare 
teased  me  about  it  and  I  was  too  proud  for  that. 

When  I  asked  him  if  he  was  fond  of  dancing, 
he  said  good-naturedly,  "  I  don't  visit  very  much, 
Miss  Bab.  I  am  generally  engaged  in  the  evening." 

Here  was  a  chance.  I  was  going  to  say  that 
that  no  doubt  was  the  reason  why  I  had  never 
met  him,  when  papa  ruthlessly  cut  me  short  by 
asking,  "  You  are  not  in  the  law  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  I  am  in  the  London  Fire 
Brigade." 

I  think  that  we  all  upon  the  instant  saw  him  in 
a  helmet  sitting  at  the  door  of  the  fire  station  by 
St.  Martin's  Church.  Clare  turned  crimson  and 
papa  seemed  on  a  sudden  to  call  his  patent  to 
mind.  The  moment  before  I  had  been  as  angry 
as  angry  could  be  with  our  guest,  but  I  was  not 
going  to  look  on  and  see  him  snubbed  when  he 
was  dining  with  us  and  all.  So  I  rushed  into  the 
gap  as  quickly  as  surprise  would  let  me  with 
"  Good  gracious,  how  nice  !  Do  tell  me  all  about 
a  fire ! " 

12 


Her  Story 

It  made  matters  —  my  matters  —  worse,  for  I 
could  have  cried  with  vexation  when  I  read  in  his 
face  next  moment  that  he  had  looked  for  their 
astonishment ;  while  the  ungrateful  fellow  set  down 
my  eager  remark  to  mere  childish  ignorance. 

"Some  time  I  will,"  he  said  with  a  quiet  smile 
de  baut  en  has ;  "  but  I  do  not  often  attend  one  in 

person.  I  am  Captain  's  private  secretary, 

aide-de-camp,  and  general  factotum." 

And  it  turned  out  that  he  was  the  son  of  a 
certain  Canon  Herapath,  so  that  papa  lost  sight 
of  his  patent  box  altogether,  and  they  set  to  dis- 
cussing Mr.  Gladstone,  while  I  slipped  off  to  bed 
feeling  as  small  as  I  ever  did  in  my  life  and  out  of 
temper  with  everybody.  It  was  a  long  time  since 
I  had  been  used  to  young  men  talking  politics  to 
papa,  when  they  could  talk  —  politics  —  to  me. 

Possibly  I  deserved  the  week  of  vexation  which 
followed ;  but  it  was  almost  more  than  I  could 
bear.  He  —  Mr.  Herapath,  of  course  —  was  al- 
ways about  fishing  or  lounging  outside  the  little 
white  posting-house,  taking  walks  and  meals  with 
us,  and  seeming  heartily  to  enjoy  papa's  society. 
He  came  with  us  when  we  drove  to  the  top  of  the 
pass  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  Sulethid  peak ;  and  it 
looked  so  brilliantly  clear  and  softly  beautiful  as  it 
'3 


When  Love  Calls 

seemed  to  float,  just  tinged  with  color,  in  a  far- 
off  atmosphere  of  its  own,  beyond  the  dark  ranges 
of  nearer  hills,  that  I  began  to  think  at  once  of 
the  drawing-room  in  Bolton  Gardens  with  a  cosy 
fire  burning,  and  afternoon  tea  coming  up.  The 
tears  came  into  my  eyes,  and  he  saw  them  before 
I  could  turn  away  from  the  view ;  and  said  to 
papa  that  he  feared  his  little  girl  was  tired  as  well 
as  cold  —  and  so  spoiled  all  my  pleasure.  I  looked 
back  afterwards  as  papa  and  I  drove  down  :  he  was 
walking  by  Clare's  carcole  and  they  were  laugh- 
ing heartily. 

And  that  was  the  way  always.  He  was  such 
an  elder  brother  to  me — a  thing  I  never  had  and 
do  not  want  —  that  a  dozen  times  a  day  I  set  my 
teeth  viciously  together  and  said  to  myself  that  if 
ever  we  met  in  London  —  but  what  nonsense  that 
was,  because,  of  course,  it  mattered  nothing  to  me 
what  he  was  thinking,  only  he  had  no  right  to  be 
so  rudely  familiar.  That  was  all ;  but  it  was 
quite  enough  to  make  me  dislike  him. 

However,  a  sunny  morning  in  the  holidays  is  a 
cheerful  thing,  and  when  I  strolled  down  stream 
with  my  rod  on  the  day  after  our  expedition,  I  felt 
I  could  enjoy  myself  very  nearly  as  much  as  I  had 
before  his  coming  spoiled  our  party.  I  dawdled 


Her  Story 

along,  now  trying  a  pool,  now  clambering  up  the 
hillsides  to  pick  raspberries,  and  now  counting  the 
magpies  that  flew  across,  feeling  altogether  very 
placid  and  good  and  contented.  I  had  chosen  the 
lower  river  because  Mr.  Herapath  usually  fished 
the  upper  part,  and  I  would  not  be  ruffled  this 
nice  day.  So  I  was  the  more  vexed  to  come 
suddenly  upon  him  fishing;  and  fishing  where  he 
had  no  right  to  be.  Papa  had  spoken  to  him  about 
the  danger  of  it,  and  he  had  as  good  as  said  he  would 
not  do  it  again.  Yet  there  he  was,  thinking,  I 
dare  say,  that  we  should  not  know.  It  was  a  spot 
where  one  bank  rose  into  quite  a  cliff,  frowning 
over  a  deep  pool  at  the  foot  of  some  falls.  Close 
to  the  cliff  the  water  still  ran  with  the  speed  of  a 
mill-race,  so  fast  as  to  endanger  a  good  swimmer. 
But  on  the  far  side  of  this  current  there  was  a  bit 
of  slack  water  which  was  tempting  enough  to  have 
set  some  one's  wits  to  work  to  devise  means  to 
fish  it,  which  from  the  top  of  the  cliff  was  im- 
possible. Just  above  the  water  was  a  ledge,  a  foot 
wide,  perhaps,  which  might  have  done,  only  it  did 
not  reach  to  this  end  of  the  cliff.  However,  that 
foolhardy  person  had  espied  this,  and  got  over  the 
gap  by  bridging  the  latter  with  a  bit  of  plank,  and 
then  had  drowned  himself  or  gone  away,  in  either 
15 


When  Love  Calls 

case  leaving  his  board  to  tempt  others  to  do 
likewise. 

And  there  was  Mr.  Herapath  fishing  from  the 
ledge.  It  made  me  giddy  to  look  at  him.  The 
rock  overhung  the  water  so  much  that  he  could 
not  stand  upright ;  the  first  person  who  got  there 
must  surely  have  learned  to  curl  himself  up  from 
much  sleeping  in  Norwegian  beds,  which  were 
short  for  me.  I  thought  of  this  oddly  enough  as  I 
watched  him,  and  laughed,  and  was  for  going  on. 
But  when  I  had  walked  a  few  yards,  meaning  to 
pass  round  the  rear  of  the  cliff,  I  began  to  fancy 
all  sorts  of  foolish  things  would  happen.  I  felt 
sure  that  I  should  have  no  more  peace  or  pleasure 
if  I  left  him  there.  I  hesitated.  Yes,  I  would. 
I  would  go  down,  and  ask  him  to  leave  the  place ; 
and,  of  course,  he  would  do  it. 

I  lost  no  time,  but  ran  down  the  slope  smartly 
and  carelessly.  My  way  lay  over  loose  shale 
mingled  with  large  stones,  and  it  was  steep.  It 
is  wonderful  how  quickly  an  accident  happens ; 
how  swiftly  a  thing  that  cannot  be  undone  is  done, 
and  we  are  left  wishing  —  oh,  so  vainly  —  that  we 
could  put  the  world,  and  all  things  in  it,  back  by 
a  few  seconds.  I  was  checking  myself  near  the 
bottom,  when  a  big  stone  on  which  I  stepped 
16 


Her  Story 

moved  under  me.  The  shale  began  to  slip  in  a 
mass,  and  the  stone  to  roll.  It  was  all  done  in  a 
moment.  I  stayed  myself,  that  was  easy  enough, 
but  the  stone  took  two  bounds,  jumped  sideways, 
struck  the  piece  of  board  which  was  only  resting 
lightly  at  either  end,  and  before  I  could  take  it  all 
in  the  little  bridge  plunged  end  first  into  the  current, 
which  swept  it  out  of  sight  in  an  instant. 

He  threw  up  his  hands  in  affright,  for  he  had 
turned,  and  we  both  saw  it  happen.  He  made 
indeed  as  if  he  would  try  to  save  it,  but  that  was 
impossible  ;  and  then,  while  I  cowered  in  dismay, 
he  waved  his  arm  to  me  in  the  direction  of  home  — 
again  and  again.  The  roar  of  the  falls  drowned 
what  he  said,  but  I  guessed  his  meaning.  I  could 
not  help  him  myself,  but  I  could  fetch  help.  It 
was  three  miles  to  Breistolen,  rough,  rocky  ones, 
and  I  doubted  whether  he  could  keep  his  cramped 
position  with  that  noise  deafening  him,  and  the 
endless  whirling  stream  before  his  eyes,  while  I 
was  going  and  coming.  But  there  was  no  better 
way  I  could  think  of;  and  even  as  I  wavered,  he 
signalled  to  me  again  imperatively.  For  an  in- 
stant everything  seemed  to  go  round  with  me, 
but  it  was  not  the  time  for  that  yet,  and  I  tried  to 
collect  myself,  and  harden  my  heart.  Up  the 
2  17 


When  Love  Calls 

bank  I  went  steadily,  and  once  at  the  top  set  off 
at  a  run  homewards. 

I  cannot  tell  at  all  how  I  did  it ;  how  I  passed 
over  the  uneven  ground,  or  whether  I  went  quickly 
or  slowly  save  by  the  reckoning  papa  made  after- 
wards. I  can  only  remember  one  long  hurrying 
scramble ;  now  I  panted  uphill,  now  I  ran  down, 
now  I  was  on  my  face  in  a  hole,  breathless  and 
half-stunned,  and  now  I  was  up  to  my  knees  in 
water.  I  slipped  and  dropped  down  places 
I  should  at  other  times  have  shrunk  from,  and 
hurt  myself  so  that  I  bore  the  marks  for  months. 
But  I  thought  nothing  of  these  things:  all  my 
being  was  spent  in  hurrying  on  for  his  life,  the 
clamor  of  every  cataract  I  passed  seeming  to  stop 
my  heart's  beating  with  very  fear.  So  I  reached 
Breistolen  and  panted  over  the  bridge  and  up  to 
the  little  white  house  lying  so  quiet  in  the  afternoon 
sunshine,  papa's  stool-car  even  then  at  the  door 
ready  to  take  him  to  some  favorite  pool.  Some- 
how I  made  him  understand  in  broken  words  that 
Herapath  was  in  danger,  drowning  already,  for  all 
I  knew,  and  then  I  seized  a  great  pole  which  was 
leaning  against  the  porch,  and  climbed  into  the  car. 
Papa  was  not  slow  either  ;  he  snatched  a  coil  of 
rope  from  the  luggage,  and  away  we  went,  a  man 
18 


Her  Story 

and  boy  whom  he  had  hastily  called  running 
behind  us.  We  had  lost  very  little  time,  but  so 
much  may  happen  in  so  little  time. 

We  were  forced  to  leave  the  car  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  from  that  part  of  the  river,  and  walk  or  run 
the  rest  of  the  way.  We  all  ran,  even  papa,  as  I 
had  never  known  him  run  before.  My  heart  sank 
at  the  groan  he  let  escape  him  when  I  pointed  out 
the  spot.  We  came  to  it  one  by  one  and  we  all 
looked.  The  ledge  was  empty.  Jem  Herapath 
was  gone.  I  suppose  it  startled  me.  At  any  rate 
I  could  only  look  at  the  water  in  a  dazed  way,  and 
cry  quietly  without  much  feeling  that  it  was  my 
doing  ;  while  the  men,  shouting  to  one  another  in 
strange,  hushed  voices,  searched  about  for  any  sign 
of  his  fate  — "  Jem  !  Jem  Herapath  !  "  So  he 
had  written  his  name  only  yesterday  in  the  travellers' 
book  at  the  posting-house,  and  I  had  sullenly 
watched  him  from  the  window,  and  then  had  sneaked 
to  the  book  and  read  it.  That  was  yesterday,  and 
now  !  Oh,  Jem,  to  hear  you  say  "  Bab "  once 
more  ! 

"  Bab  !      Why,  Miss  Bab,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

Safe    and  sound  !      Yes,  there  he  was  when  I 

turned,  safe,  and  strong,  and  cool,  rod  in  hand,  and 

a  quiet  smile  in  his  eyes.     Just  as  I  had  seen  him 


When  Love  Calls 

yesterday,  and  thought  never  to  see  him  again  ;  and 
saying  "  Bab  "  exactly  as  of  old,  so  that  something 
in  my  throat  —  it  may  have  been  anger  at  his 
rudeness,  but  I  do  not  think  it  was  —  prevented 
me  saying  a  word  until  all  the  others  came  round 
us,  and  a  babel  of  Norse  and  English,  and  some- 
thing that  was  neither,  yet  both,  set  in. 

u  But  how  is  this  ?  "  objected  my  father  when 
he  could  be  heard,  "  you  are  quite  dry,  my  boy  ?  " 

"  Dry  !  Why  not,  sir  ?  For  goodness'  sake, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"The  matter!  Didn't  you  fall  in,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind  ?  "  papa  asked,  bewildered  by 
this  new  aspect  of  the  case. 

41  It  does  not  look  like  it,  does  it?  Your 
daughter  gave  me  a  very  uncomfortable  start  by 
nearly  doing  so." 

Every  one  looked  at  him  for  an  explanation. 
"  How  did  you  manage  to  get  from  the  ledge  ?  " 
I  said  feebly.  Where  was  the  mistake  ?  I  had  not 
dreamed  it. 

u  From  the  ledge  ?  Why,  by  the  other  end,  to 
be  sure,  so  that  I  had  to  walk  back  round  the  hill. 
Still  I  did  not  mind,  for  I  was  thankful  that  it  was 
the  plank  and  not  you  that  fell  in. 

"I  —  I  thought  —  you  could  not  get  from  the 
20 


Her  Story 

ledge,"  I  muttered.  The  possibility  of  getting  off 
at  the  other  end  had  never  occurred  to  me,  and  so 
I  had  made  such  a  simpleton  of  myself.  It  was 
too  absurd,  too  ridiculous.  It  was  no  wonder  that 
they  all  screamed  with  laughter  at  the  fool's  errand 
they  had  come  upon,  and  stamped  about  and  clung 
to  one  another.  But  when  be  laughed  too  —  and 
he  did  until  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes  —  there 
was  not  an  ache  or  pain  in  my  body  —  and  I  had 
cut  my  wrist  to  the  bone  against  a  splinter  of  rock 
—  that  hurt  me  one-half  as  much.  Surely  he 
might  have  seen  another  side  to  it.  But  he  did 
not ;  and  so  I  managed  to  hide  my  bandaged  wrist 
from  him,  and  papa  drove  me  home.  There  I 
broke  down  entirely,  and  Clare  put  me  to  bed,  and 
petted  me,  and  was  very  good  to  me.  And  when 
I  came  down  next  day,  with  an  ache  in  every  part 
of  me,  he  was  gone. 

"  He  asked  me  to  tell  you,"  said  Clare,  not 
looking  up  from  the  fly  she  was  tying  at  the  win- 
dow, "  that  he  thought  you  were  the  bravest  girl 
he  had  ever  met." 

So  he  understood  now,  when  others  had  explained 

it  to  him.     "No,  Clare,"  I    said  coldly,  "he  did 

not    say  that  exactly  ;   he  said  c  the  bravest   little 

girl.' '      For  indeed,  lying  upstairs  with  the  win- 

21 


When  Love  Calls 

dow  open,  I  had  heard  him  set  off  on  his 
long  drive  to  Laerdalsoren.  As  for  papa,  he  was 
half-proud  and  half-ashamed  of  my  foolishness,  and 
wholly  at  a  loss  to  think  how  I  could  have  made 
the  mistake. 

"  You  've  generally  some  common-sense,  my 
dear,"  he  said  that  day  at  dinner,  "  and  how  in 
the  world  you  could  have  been  so  ready  to  fancy 
the  man  was  in  danger,  I  —  can  —  not  — 
imagine  ! " 

"  Papa,"  put  in  Clare,  suddenly,  "  your  elbow  is 
upsetting  the  salt." 

And  as  I  had  to  move  my  seat  just  then  to 
avo-d  the  glare  of  the  stove  which  was  falling  on 
my  face,  we  never  thought  it  out. 


22 


II 


HIS    STORY 


T  WAS  not  dining  out  much  at  that  time,  partly 
-*-  because  my  acquaintance  in  town  was  limited, 
and  something  too  because  I  cared  little  for  it. 
But  these  were  pleasant  people,  the  old  gentleman 
witty  and  amusing,  the  children,  lively  girls,  nice 
to  look  at  and  good  to  talk  with.  The  party  had 
too  a  holiday  flavor  about  them  wholesome  to 
recall  in  Scotland  Yard  :  and  as  I  had  thought, 
play-time  over,  I  should  see  no  more  of  them,  I 
was  proportionately  pleased  to  find  that  Mr.  Guest 
had  not  forgotten  me,  and  pleased  also  —  shrewdly 
expecting  that  we  might  kill  our  fish  over  again  — 
to  regard  his  invitatidn  to  dinner  at  a  quarter-to- 
eight  as  a  royal  command. 

But  if  I  took  it  so,  I  was  sadly  wanting  in  the 
regal  courtesy  to  match.  What  with  one  delay 
owing  to  work  that  would  admit  of  none,  and 
another  caused  by  a  cabman  strange  to  the  ways 
of  town,  it  was  twenty-five  minutes  after  the  hour 
23 


When  Love  Calls 

named,  when  I  reached  Bolton  Gardens.  A  stately 
man,  so  like  the  Queen's  Counsel,  that  it  was  plain 
upon  whom  the  latter  modelled  himself,  ushered 
me  straight  into  the  dining-room,  where  Guest 
greeted  me  very  kindly,  and  met  my  excuses 
by  apologies  on  his  part  —  for  preferring,  I  sup- 
pose, the  comfort  of  eleven  people  to  mine.  Then 
he  took  me  down  the  table,  and  said,  "  My  daugh- 
ter," and  Miss  Guest  shook  hands  with  me  and 
pointed  to  the  chair  at  her  left.  I  had  still,  as  I 
unfolded  my  napkin,  to  say  "  Clear,  if  you  please," 
and  then  I  was  free  to  turn  and  apologize  to  her, 
being  a  little  shy,  and,  as  I  have  said,  a  somewhat 
infrequent  diner  out. 

I  think  that  I  never  saw  so  remarkable  a  likeness 
—  to  her  younger  sister — in  my  life.  She  might 
have  been  little  Bab  herself,  but  for  her  dress  and 
some  striking  differences.  Miss  Guest  could  not 
be  more  than  eighteen,  in  form  almost  as  fairy-like 
as  the  little  one,  with  the  same  child-like,  innocent 
look  on  her  face.  She  had  the  big,  gray  eyes,  too, 
that  were  so  charming  in  Bab ;  but  in  her  they 
were  more  soft  and  tender  and  thoughtful,  and  a 
thousand  times  more  charming.  Her  hair  too  was 
brown  and  wavy  :  only,  instead  of  hanging  loose 
or  in  a  pig-tail  anywhere  and  anyhow  in  a  fashion 
24 


His  Story 

I  well  remembered,  it  was  coiled  in  a  coronal  on 
the  shapely  little  head,  that  was  so  Greek,  and  in 
its  gracious,  stately,  old-fashioned  pose,  so  unlike 
Bab's.  Her  dress,  of  some  creamy,  gauzy  stuff, 
revealed  the  prettiest  white  throat  in  the  world,  and 
arms  decked  in  pearls,  and,  so  far,  no  more  recalled 
my  little  fishing-mate  than  the  sedate  self-possession 
and  assured  dignity  of  this  girl,  as  she  talked  to  her 
other  neighbor,  suggested  Bab  making  pancakes 
and  chattering  with  the  landlady's  children  in  her 
strangely  and  wonderfully  acquired  Norse.  It  was 
not  Bab  in  fact :  and  yet  it  almost  might  have 
been  :  an  etherealized,  queenly,  womanly  Bab. 
Who  presently  turned  to  me  — 

"  Have  you  quite  settled  down  after  your  holi- 
day ?  "  she  asked,  staying  the  apologies  I  was  for 
pouring  into  her  ear. 

11 1  had  until  this  evening,  but  the  sight  of  your 
father  is  like  a  breath  of  fiord  air.  I  hope  your 
sisters  are  well." 

"  My  sisters  ?  "  she  murmured  wonderingly, 
her  fork  half-way  to  her  pretty  mouth  and  her 
attitude  one  of  questioning. 

"  Yes,"   I  said  rather  puzzled.       "  You  know 
they  were  with  your  father  when   I   had  the  good 
fortune  to  meet  him.      Miss  Clare  and  Bab." 
25 


When  Love  Calls 

"  Eh  ?  "   dropping  her  fork  on  the  plate  with  a 
great  clatter. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Guest,  Miss  Clare  and  Miss  Bab." 
I  really  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  Her 
color  rose,  and  she  looked  me  in  the  face  in  a 
half-proud,  half-fearful  way  as  if  she  resented  the 
inquiry.  It  was  a  relief  to  me,  when,  with  some 
show  of  confusion,  she  at  length  stammered,  "  Oh, 
yes,  I  beg  your  pardon,  of  course  they  were  !  How 
very  foolish  of  me.  They  are  quite  well,  thank 
you,"  and  so  was  silent  again.  But  I  understood 
now.  Mr.  Guest  had  omitted  to  mention  my 
name,  and  she  had  taken  me  for  some  one  else  of 
whose  holiday  she  knew.  I  gathered  from  the 
aspect  of  the  table  and  the  room  that  the  Guests 
saw  a  good  deal  of  company,  and  it  was  a  very 
natural  mistake,  though  by  the  grave  look  she  bent 
upon  her  plate  it  was  clear  that  the  young  hostess 
was  taking  herself  to  task  for  it  :  not  without,  if  I 
might  judge  from  the  lurking  smile  at  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  a  humorous  sense  of  the  slip,  and 
perhaps  of  the  difference  between  myself  and  the 
gentleman  whose  part  I  had  been  unwittingly  sup- 
porting. Meanwhile  I  had  a  chance  of  looking  at 
her  unchecked ;  and  thought  of  Dresden  china,  she 
was  so  frail  and  pretty. 

26 


His  Story 

u  You  were  nearly  drowned,  or  something  of 
the  kind,  were  you  not  ?"  she  asked,  after  an  in- 
terval during  which  we  had  both  talked  to  others. 

"  Well,  not  precisely.  Your  sister  fancied  I 
was  in  danger,  and  behaved  in  the  pluckiest  manner 
—  so  bravely  that  I  can  almost  feel  sorry  that  the 
danger  was  not  there  to  dignify  her  heroism." 

D  O  J 

"  That  was  like  her,"  she  answered  in  a  tone 
just  a  little  scornful.  "  You  must  have  thought 
her  a  terrible  tomboy." 

While  she  was  speaking  there  came  one  of  those 
dreadful  lulls  in  the  talk,  and  Mr.  Guest  overhear- 
ing, cried,  "  Who  is  that  you  are  abusing,  my  dear  ? 
Let  us  all  share  in  the  sport.  If  it 's  Clare,  I  think 
I  can  name  one  who  is  a  far  worse  hoyden  upon 
occasion." 

"  It  is  no  one  of  whom  you  have  ever  heard, 
papa,"  she  answered,  archly.  "  It  is  a  person  in 
whom  Mr.  —  Mr.  Herapath  —  "I  had  murmured 
my  name  as  she  stumbled  —  "  and  I  are  interested. 
Now  tell  me,  did  you  not  think  so  ?  "  she  murmured, 
graciously  leaning  the  slightest  bit  towards  me,  and 
opening  her  eyes  as  they  looked  into  mine  in  a  way 
that  to  a  man  who  had  spent  the  day  in  a  dusty 
room  in  Great  Scotland  Yard  was  sufficiently 
intoxicating. 

27 


When  Love  Calls 

"  No,"  I  said,  lowering  my  voice  in  imitation  of 
hers.  "No,  Miss  Guest,  I  did  not  think  so  at  all. 
I  thought  your  sister  a  brave  little  thing,  rather 
careless  as  children  are  apt  to  be,  but  likely  to  grow 
into  a  charming  girl." 

I  wondered,  marking  how  she  bit  her  lip  and 
refrained  from  assent,  whether,  impossible  as  it 
must  seem  to  any  one  looking  in  her  face,  there 
might  not  be  something  of  the  shrew  about  my 
beautiful  neighbor.  Her  tone  when  she  spoke  of 
her  sister  seemed  to  impart  no  great  goodwill. 

"  So  that  is  your  opinion  ?  "  she  said,  after  a 
pause.  "  Do  you  know,"  with  a  laughing  glance, 
"that  some  people  think  I  am  like  her." 

"  Yes  ?  "  I  answered,  gravely.  "  Well,  I  should 
be  able  to  judge,  who  have  seen  you  both  and  yet 
am  not  an  old  friend.  And  I  think  you  are  both 
like  and  unlike.  Your  sister  has  very  beautiful 
eyes  "  —  she  lowered  hers  swiftly  —  "  and  hair  like 
yours,  but  her  manner  and  style  were  very  different. 
I  can  no  more  fancy  Bab  in  your  place  than  I  can 
picture  you,  Miss  Guest,  as  I  saw  her  for  the  first 
time  —  and  on  many  after  occasions,"  I  added, 
laughing  as  much  to  cover  my  own  hardihood  as  at 
the  queer  little  figure  I  had  conjured  up. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Herapath,"  she  replied,  with 
28 


His  Story 

coldness,  though  she  had  blushed  darkly  to  her  ears. 
u  That,  I  think,  must  be  enough  of  compliments,  for 
to-night  —  as  you  are  not  an  old  friend."  And 
she  turned  away,  leaving  me  to  curse  my  folly  in 
saying  so  much,  when  our  acquaintance  was  as  yet 
in  the  bud,  and  as  susceptible  to  over-warmth  as 
to  a  temperature  below  zero. 

A  moment  later  the  ladies  left  us.  The  flush 
I  had  brought  to  her  cheek  still  lingered  there,  as 
she  swept  past  me  with  a  wondrous  show  of  dig- 
nity in  one  so  young.  Mr.  Guest  came  down  and 
took  her  place,  and  we  talked  of  the  "  land  of 
berries,"  and  our  adventures  there,  while  the  rest 
—  older  friends —  listened  indulgently  or  struck  in 
from  time  to  time  with  their  own  biggest  fish  and 
deadliest  flies. 

I  used  to  wonder  why  women  like  to  visit  dusty 
chambers  ;  why  they  get  more  joy  —  I  am  fain  to 
think  they  do — out  of  a  scrambling  tea  up  three 
pairs  of  stairs  in  Pump  Court,  than  from  the  very 
same  materials  —  and  comfort  withal — in  their 
own  house.  I  imagine  it  is  for  the  same  reason 
that  the  bachelor  finds  a  singular  charm  in  a  lady's 
drawing-room,  and  there,  if  anywhere,  sees  her 
with  a  reverent  mind.  A  charm  and  a  subser- 
vience which  I  felt  to  the  full  in  the  Guests'  draw- 
29 


When  Love  Calls 

ing-room  —  a  room  rich  in  subdued  colors  and  a 
cunning  blending  of  luxury  and  comfort.  Yet  it 
depressed  me.  I  felt  alone.  Mr.  Guest  had  passed 
on  to  others  and  I  stood  aside,  the  sense  that  I  was 
not  of  these  people  troubling  me  in  a  manner  as 
new  as  it  was  absurd  :  for  I  had  been  in  the  habit 
of  rather  despising  "  society."  Miss  Guest  was  at 
the  piano,  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  soft  light,  which 
showed  up  also  a  keen-faced,  dark-whiskered  man 
leaning  over  her  with  the  air  of  one  used  to  the 
position.  Every  one  else  was  so  fully  engaged 
that  I  may  have  looked,  as  well  as  felt,  forlorn,  and 
meeting  her  eyes  could  have  fancied  she  was  re- 
garding me  with  amusement  —  almost  triumph. 
It  must  have  been  mere  fancy,  bred  of  self-con- 
sciousness, for  the  next  moment  she  beckoned  me 
to  her,  and  said  to  her  cavalier  : 

"  There,  Jack,  Mr.  Herapath  is  going  to  talk  to 
me  about  Norway  now,  so  that  I  don't  want  you 
any  longer.  Perhaps  you  won't  mind  stepping  up 
to  the  schoolroom  —  Fraulein  and  Clare  are  there 
—  and  telling  Clare,  that  —  that  —  oh,  anything." 

There  is  no  piece  of  ill-breeding  so  bad  to  my 

mind  as  for  a  man  who  is  at  home  in  a  house  to 

flaunt  his  favor  in  the  face  of  other  guests.     That 

young  lawyer's  manner  as  he  left  her,  and  the  smile 

30 


His  Story 

of  perfect  intelligence  which  passed  between  them, 
were  such  a  breach  of  good  manners  as  would  have 
ruffled  any  one.  They  ruffled  me — yes,  me, 
although  it  was  no  concern  of  mine  what  she 
called  him,  or  how  he  conducted  himself —  so  that 
I  could  do  nothing  but  stand  by  the  piano  and  sulk. 
One  bear  makes  another,  you  know. 

She  did  not  speak  ;  and  I,  content  to  watch  the 
slender  hands  stealing  over  the  keys,  would  not, 
until  my  eyes  fell  upon  her  right  wrist.  She  had 
put  off  her  bracelets  and  so  disclosed  a  scar  upon 
it,  something  about  which  —  not  its  newness  —  so 
startled  me  that  I  said  abruptly:  "  That  is  very 
strange  !  Pray  tell  me  how  you  did  it"?  " 

She  looked  up,  saw  what  I  meant,  and  stopping 
hastily,  put  on  her  bracelets;  to  all  appearance  so 
vexed  by  my  thoughtless  question,  and  anxious  to 
hide  the  mark,  that  I  was  quick  to  add  humbly, 
"  I  asked  because  your  sister  hurt  her  wrist  in 
nearly  the  same  place  on  the  day  when  she  thought 
I  was  in  trouble,  and  the  coincidence  struck  me." 

"Yes,  I  remember,"  looking  at  me,  I  thought, 
with  a  certain  suspicion,  as  though  she  were  not 
sure  that  I  was  giving  the  right  motive.  "  I  did 
this  much  in  the  same  way.  By  falling,  I  mean. 
Is  n't  it  a  hateful  disfigurement  ?  " 
31 


When  Love  Calls 

No,  it  was  no  disfigurement.  Even  to  her,  with 
a  woman's  love  of  conquest,  it  must  have  seemed 
anything  but  a  disfigurement  had  she  known  what 
the  quiet,  awkward  man  at  her  side  was  thinking, 
who  stood  looking  shyly  at  it  and  found  no  words 
to  contradict  her,  though  she  asked  him  twice,  and 
thought  him  stupid  enough.  A  great  longing  to 
kiss  that  soft,  scarred  wrist  was  on  me  —  and  Miss 
Guest  had  added  another  to  the  number  of  her 
slaves.  I  don't  know  now  why  that  little  scar 
should  have  so  touched  me  any  more  than  I  then 
could  guess  why,  being  a  commonplace  person,,  I 
should  fall  in  love  at  first  sight,  and  feel  no  sur- 
prise at  my  condition,  but  only  a  half  consciousness 
(seeming  fully  to  justify  it)  that  in  some  former 
state  of  being  I  had  met  my  love,  and  read  her 
thoughts,  and  learned  her  moods ;  and  come  to 
know  the  bright  womanly  spirit  that  looked  from 
her  frank  eyes  as  well  as  if  she  were  an  old,  old 
friend.  And  so  vivid  was  this  sensation,  that  once 
or  twice,  then  and  afterwards,  when  I  would  meet 
her  glance,  another  name  than  hers  trembled  on 
my  tongue  and  passed  away  before  I  could  shape 
it  into  sound. 

After  an  interval,  "  Are  you  going  to  the 
Goldmace's  dance  ?  " 

32 


His  Story 

"  No,"  I  answered  her,  humbly.  "  I  go  out  so 
little." 

"  Indeed,"  with  an  odd  smile  not  too  kindly  ; 
"  I  wish  —  no  I  don't  —  that  we  could  say  the 
same.  We  are  engaged,  I  think  —  "  she  paused, 
her  attention  divided  between  myself  and  Bocche- 
rini's  minuet,  the  low  strains  of  which  she  was 
sending  through  the  room  —  "  for  every  afternoon 

—  this   week  —  except    Saturday.       By    the    way, 
Mr.  Herapath  —  do  you   remember  what  was  the 
name  —  Bab  told  me  you  teased  her  with  ?  " 

u  Wee  bonnie  Bab,"  I  answered  absently.  My 
thoughts  had  gone  forward  to  Saturday.  We  are 
always  dropping  to-day's  substance  for  the  shadow 
of  to-morrow ;  like  the  dog  —  a  dog  was  it  not  ? 

—  in  the  fable." 

"  Oh,  yes,  wee  bonnie  Bab,"  she  murmured  softly. 
"  Poor  Bab  !  "  and  suddenly  cut  short  Boccherini's 
music  and  our  chat  by  striking  a  terrific  discord  and 
laughing  merrily  at  my  start  of  discomfiture.  Every 
one  took  it  as  a  signal  to  leave.  They  all  seemed  to 
be  going  to  meet  her  again  next  day,  or  the  day 
after  that  ;  they  engaged  her  for  dances,  and  made 
up  a  party  for  the  law  courts,  and  tossed  to  and  fro  a 
score  of  laughing  catch-words,  that  were  beyond  my 
comprehension.  They  all  did  this,  except  myself. 
3  33 


When  Love  Calls 

And  yet  I  went  away  with  something  before  me 
—  that  call  upon  Saturday  afternoon.  Quite  un- 
reasonably I  fancied  I  should  see  her  alone.  And 
so  when  the  day  came  and  I  stood  outside  the 
opening  door  of  the  drawing-room,  and  heard 
voices  and  laughter  within,  I  was  hurt  and  aggrieved 
beyond  measure.  There  was  quite  a  party,  and  a 
merry  one,  assembled,  who  were  playing  at  some 
game,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  for  I  caught  sight  of 
Clare  whipping  off  an  impromptu  bandage  from 
her  eyes,  and  striving  by  her  stiffest  air  to  give  the 
lie  to  a  pair  of  flushed  cheeks.  The  black-whis- 
kered man  was  there,  and  two  men  of  his  kind, 
and  a  German  governess,  and  a  very  old  lady  in  a 
wheel-chair,  who  was  called  "  grandmamma,"  and 
Miss  Guest  herself  looking,  in  the  prettiest  dress 
of  silvery  plush,  to  the  full  as  bright  and  fair  and 
graceful  as  I  had  been  picturing  her  each  hour 
since  we  parted. 

She  dropped  me  a  stately  courtesy.  "  Will  you 
play  the  part  of  Miss  Carolina  Wilhelmina  Amelia 
Skeggs,  Mr.  Herapath,  while  I  act  honest  Burchell, 
and  say  "  Fudge  !  "  or  will  you  burn  nuts  and  play 
games  with  neighbor  Flamborough  ?  You  will 
join  us,  won't  you  ?  Clare  does  not  so  misbehave 
every  day,  only  it  is  such  a  wet  afternoon  and  so 
34 


His  Story 

cold  and  wretched,  and  we  did  not  think  there 
would  be  any  more  callers —  and  tea  will  be  up  in 
five  minutes." 

She  did  not  think  there  would  be  any  more 
callers  !  Something  in  her  smile  belied  the  words 
and  taught  me  that  she  had  thought  —  she  had 
known  —  that  there  would  be  one  more  caller  — 
one  who  would  burn  nuts  and  play  games  with  her, 
though  Rome  itself  were  afire,  and  Tooley  Street 
and  the  Mile  End  Road  to  boot. 

It  was  a  simple  game  enough,  and  not  likely, 
one  would  say,  to  afford  much  risk  of  that  burning 
the  fingers,  which  gave  a  zest  to  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield's  nuts.  One  sat  in  the  middle  blind- 
folded, while  the  rest  disguised  their  own  or  as- 
sumed each  other's  voices,  and  spoke  one  by  one 
some  gibe  or  quip  at  his  expense.  When  he  suc- 
ceeded in  naming  the  speaker,  the  detected  satirist 
put  on  the  poke,  and  in  his  turn  heard  things  good 
—  if  he  had  a  conceit  of  himself — for  his  soul's 
health.  Now  this  role  unhappily  soon  fell  to  me, 
and  proved  a  heavy  one,  because  I  was  not  so  fa- 
miliar with  the  others'  voices  as  were  the  rest ;  and 
Miss  Guest — whose  faintest  tones  I  thought  to 
have  known  —  had  a  wondrous  knack  of  cheating 
me,  now  taking  off  Clare's  voice,  and  now  —  after 
35 


When  Love  Calls 

the  door  had  been  opened  to  admit  the  tea  —  her 
father's.  So  I  failed  again  and  again  to  earn  my 
release.  But  when  a  voice  behind  me  cried  with 
well-feigned  eagerness  — 

"  How  nice  !      Do  tell  me  all  about  a  fire  !  " 

Though  no  fresh  creaking  at  the  door  had 
reached  me,  nor  warning  been  given  of  an  ad- 
dition to  the  players,  I  had  not  the  smallest  doubt 
who  was  the  speaker;  but  exclaimed  at  once, 
"  That  is  Bab  !  Now  I  cry  you  mercy.  I  am 
right  this  time.  That  was  Bab!" 

I  looked  for  a  burst  of  applause  and  laughter, 
such  as  had  before  attended  a  good  thrust  home, 
but  none  came.  On  the  contrary,  with  my  words 
so  odd  a  silence  fell  upon  the  room  that  it  was 
clear  that  something  was  wrong,  and  I  pulled  off 
my  handkerchief  in  haste,  repeating,  "  That  was 
Bab,  I  am  sure." 

But  if  it  was,  I  could  not  see  her.  What  had 
come  over  them  all  ?  Jack's  face  wore  a  provok- 
ing smile,  and  his  friends  were  clearly  bent  upon 
sniggering.  Clare  looked  horrified,  and  grand- 
mamma gently  titillated,  while  Miss  Guest,  who 
had  risen  and  half  turned  away  towards  the  win- 
dows, seemed  to  be  in  a  state  of  proud  confusion. 
What  was  the  matter  ? 

36 


His  Story 

"  I  beg  every  one's  pardon  by  anticipation,"  I 
said,  looking  round  in  a  bewildered  way  :  "  but 
have  I  said  anything  wrong  ?  " 

44  Oh,  dear  no,"  cried  the  fellow  they  called 
Jack,  with  a  familiarity  that  was  in  the  worst  taste 
—  as  if  I  had  meant  to  apologize  to  him  !  "  Most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  !  " 

44  Jack,  how  dare  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Miss  Guest, 
stamping  her  foot. 

41  Well  it  seemed  all  right.  It  sounded  very 
natural,  I  am  sure." 

"  Oh,  you  are  unbearable!  Why  don't  you  say 
something,  Clare  ?  " 

44  Mr.  Herapath,  I  am  sure  that  you  did  not 
know  that  my  name  was  Barbara." 

"  Certainly  not,"  I  cried.  "  What  a  strange 
thing  !  " 

44  But  it  is,  and  that  is  why  grandmamma  is 
looking  so  shocked,  and  Mr.  Buchanan  is  wearing 
threadbare  an  old  friend's  privilege  of  being  rude. 
I  freely  forgive  you  if  you  will  make  allowance  for 
him.  And  you  shall  come  off  the  stool  of  repent- 
ance and  have  your  tea  first,  since  you  are  the 
greatest  stranger.  It  is  a  stupid  game  after 
all  !  " 

She  would  hear  no  apologies  from  me.  And 
37 


When  Love  Calls 

when  I  would  have  asked  why  her  sister  bore  the 
same  name,  and  thus  excused  myself,  she  was  in- 
tent upon  tea-making,  and  the  few  moments  I 
could  with  decency  add  to  my  call  gave  me  scant 
opportunity.  I  blush  to  think  how  I  eked  them 
out,  by  what  subservience  to  Clare,  by  what  a  slav- 
ish anxiety  to  help  even  Jack  to  muffins — each 
piece  I  hoped  might  choke  him.  How  slow  I  was 
to  find  hat  and  gloves,  calling  to  mind  with  terrible 
vividness,  as  I  turned  my  back  upon  the  circle, 
that  again  and  again  in  my  experience,  an  acquaint- 
ance begun  by  a  dinner  had  ended  with  the  conse- 
quent call.  And  so  I  should  have  gone  —  it  might 
have  been  so  here  —  but  that  the  door-handle  was 
stiff,  and  Miss  Guest  came  to  my  aid,  as  I  fumbled 
with  it.  u  We  are  always  at  home  on  Saturdays, 
if  you  like  to  call,  Mr.  Herapath,"  she  murmured 
carelessly,  not  lifting  her  eyes — and  I  found  my- 
self in  the  street. 

So  carelessly  she  said  it,  that  with  a  sudden 
change  of  feeling  I  vowed  I  would  not  call.  Why 
should  I  ?  Why  should  I  worry  myself  with  the 
sight  of  those  other  fellows  parading  their  favor  ? 
With  the  babble  of  that  society  chit-chat,  which  I 
had  so  often  scorned,  and  —  and  still  scorned,  and 
had  no  part  or  concern  in.  They  were  not  people 
38 


His  Story 

to  suit  me,  or  do  me  good.  I  would  not  go,  I 
said,  and  repeated  it  firmly  on  Monday  and  Tues- 
day ;  on  Wednesday  only  so  far  modified  it  that  I 
thought  at  some  distant  time  to  leave  a  card  —  to 
avoid  discourtesy  ;  —  on  Friday  preferred  an  earlier 
date  as  wiser  and  more  polite,  and  on  Saturday 
walked  shame-faced  down  the  street  and  knocked 
and  rang,  and  went  upstairs  —  to  taste  a  pleasant 
misery.  Yes,  and  on  the  next  Saturday  too,  and 
the  next,  and  the  next ;  and  that  one  on  which  we 
all  went  to  the  theatre,  and  that  other  one  on  which 
Mr.  Guest  kept  me  to  dinner.  Ay,  and  on  other 
days  that  were  not  Saturdays,  among  which  two 
stand  high  out  of  the  waters  of  forgetfulness  —  high 
days  indeed  —  days  like  twin  pillars  of  Hercules, 
through  which  I  thought  to  reach,  as  did  the  sea- 
men of  old,  I  knew  not  what  treasures  of  unknown 
lands  stretching  away  under  the  setting  sun.  First 
that  one  on  which  I  found  Barbara  Guest  alone 
and  blurted  out  that  I  had  the  audacity  to  wish  to 
make  her  my  wife  ;  and  then  heard,  before  I  had 
well  —  or  badly  —  told  my  tale,  the  wheels  of 
grandmamma's  chair  outside. 

"  Hush  !  "  the  girl  said,  her  face  turned  from  me. 
"  Hush,  Mr.  Herapath.     You  don't  know  me,  in- 
deed.    You  have  seen  so  little  of  me.     Please  say 
39 


When  Love  Calls 

nothing  more  about  it.  You  are  completely  under 
a  delusion." 

"  It  is  no  delusion  that  I  love  you,  Barbara  !  " 
I  cried. 

"  It  is,  it  is,"  she  repeated,  freeing  her  hand. 
"  There,  if  you  will  not  take  an  answer — come 
—  come  at  three  to-morrow.  But  mind,  I  promise 
you  nothing —  I  promise  you  nothing,"  she  added 
feverishly,  and  fled  from  the  room,  leaving  me  to 
talk  to  grandmamma  as  best,  and  escape  as  quickly 
as,  I  might. 

I  longed  for  a  great  fire  that  evening,  and  failing 
one,  tired  myself  by  tramping  unknown  streets  of 
the  East-end,  striving  to  teach  myself  that  any 
trouble  to-morrow  might  bring  was  but  a  shadow, 
a  sentiment,  a  thing  not  to  be  mentioned  in  the 
same  breath  with  the  want  and  toil  of  which  I 
caught  glimpses  up  each  street  and  lane  that  opened 
to  right  and  left.  In  the  main,  of  course,  I  failed  : 
but  the  effort  did  me  good,  sending  me  home  tired 
out,  to  sleep  as  soundly  as  if  I  were  going  to  be 
hanged  next  day,  and  not  —  which  is  a  very  differ- 
ent thing —  to  be  put  upon  my  trial. 

"  I  will  tell  Miss  Guest  you  are  here,  sir,"  the 
man  said.  I  looked  at  all  the  little  things  in  the 
room  which  I  had  come  to  know  well  —  her  work- 
40 


His  Story 

basket,  the  music  upon  the  piano,  the  table-easel, 
her  photograph  - —  and  wondered  if  I  were  to  see 
them  no  more,  or  if  they  were  to  become  a  part  of 
my  every-day  life.  Then  I  heard  her  come  in, 
and  turned  quickly,  feeling  that  I  should  learn  my 
fate  from  her  greeting. 

"  Bab  !  "  The  word  was  rung  from  me  perforce. 
And  then  we  stood  and  looked  at  one  another,  she 
with  a  strange  pride  and  defiance  in  her  eyes, 
though  her  cheek  was  dark  with  blushes,  and  I 
with  wonder  and  perplexity  in  mine,  —  wonder  and 
perplexity  that  quickly  grew  into  a  conviction,  a 
certainty  that  the  girl  standing  before  me  in  the 
short-skirted  brown  dress  with  tangled  hair  and 
loose  neck-ribbon  was  the  Bab  I  had  known  in 
Norway;  and  yet  that  the  eyes  —  I  could  not 
mistake  them  now,  no  matter  what  unaccustomed 
look  they  might  wear  —  were  Barbara  Guest's  ! 

"Miss  Guest  —  Barbara,"  I  stammered,  grap- 
pling with  the  truth,  "  why  have  you  played  this 
trick  upon  me  ?  " 

u  It  is  Miss  Guest  and  Barbara  now,"  she  cried, 
with  a  mocking  courtesy.  "  Do  you  remember, 
Mr.  Herapath,  when  it  was  Bab?  When  you 
treated  me  as  a  kind  of  toy,  and  a  plaything,  with 
which  you  might  be  as  intimate  as  you  liked  ;  and 
41 


When  Love  Calls 

hurt  my  feelings  —  yes,  it  is  weak  to  confess  it,  I 
know  —  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour  ?  " 

"  But  surely,  that  is  forgiven  now  ?  "  I  said, 
dazed  by  an  attack  so  sudden  and  so  bitter.  "  It  is 
atonement  enough  that  I  am  at  your  feet  now, 
Barbara !  " 

"  You  are  not,"  she  retorted  hotly.  "  Don't 
say  you  have  offered  love  to  me,  who  am  the  same 
with  the  child  you  teased  at  Breistolen.  You  have 
fallen  in  love  with  my  fine  clothes,  and  my  pearls 
and  my  maid's  work,  not  with  me.  You  have 
fancied  the  girl  you  saw  other  men  make  much  of. 
But  you  have  not  loved  the  woman  who  might 
have  prized  that  which  Miss  Guest  has  never 
learned  to  value." 

"  How  old  are  you  ?  "   I  said,  hoarsely. 

"  Nineteen  !  "  she  snapped  out.  And  then  for 
a  moment  we  were  both  silent. 

"I  begin  to  understand  now,"  I  answered  slowly 
as  soon  as  I  could  conquer  something  in  my  throat. 
"  Long  ago  when  I  hardly  knew  you,  I  hurt 
your  woman's  pride ;  and  since  that  you  have 
plotted " 

"  No,  you  have  tricked  yourself  !  " 

"  And  schemed  to  bring  me  to  your  feet  that 
you  might  have  the  pleasure  of  trampling  on  me. 
42 


His  Story 

Miss  Guest,  your  triumph  is  complete,  more  com- 
plete than  you  are  able  to  understand.  I  loved 
you  this  morning  above  all  the  world  — as  my  own 
life  —  as  every  hope  I  had.  See,  I  tell  you  this 
that  you  may  have  a  moment's  keener  pleasure 
when  I  am  gone." 

"  Don't !  Don't !  "  she  cried,  throwing  herself 
into  a  chair  and  covering  her  face. 

"  You  have  won  a  man's  heart  and  cast  it  aside 
to  gratify  an  old  pique.  You  may  rest  content 
now,  for  there  is  nothing  wanting  to  your  ven- 
geance. You  have  given  me  as  much  pain  as  a 
woman,  the  vainest  and  the  most  heartless,  can  give 
a  man.  Good-by." 

And  with  that  I  was  leaving  her,  righting  my 
own  pain  and  passion,  so  that  the  little  hands  she 
raised  as  though  they  would  ward  off  my  words 
were  nothing  to  me.  I  felt  a  savage  delight  in 
seeing  that  I  could  hurt  her,  which  deadened  my 
own  -grief.  The  victory  was  not  all  with  her  lying 
there  sobbing.  Only  where  was  my  hat  ?  Let 
me  get  my  hat  and  go.  Let  me  escape  from  this 
room  wherein  every  trifle  upon  which  my  eye  rested 
awoke  some  memory  that  was  a  pang.  Let  me 
get  away,  and  have  done  with  it  all. 

Where  was  the  hat  ?  I  had  brought  it  up.  I 
43 


When  Love  Calls 

could  not  go  without  it.  It  must  be  under  her 
chair,  by  all  that  was  unlucky,  for  it  was  nowhere 
else.  I  could  not  stand  and  wait,  and  so  I  had  to 
go  up  to  her,  with  cold  words  of  apology  upon  my 
lips,  and  being  close  to  her  and  seeing  on  her 
wrist,  half  hidden  by  fallen  hair,  the  scar  she  had 
brought  home  from  Norway,  I  don't  know  how  it 
was  that  I  fell  on  my  knees  by  her  and  cried  : 

"  Oh,  Bab,  I  loved  you  so !  Let  us  part 
friends." 

For  a  moment,  silence.  Then  she  whispered, 
her  hand  in  mine,  "  Why  did  you  not  say  Bab  to 
begin  ?  I  only  told  you  that  Miss  Guest  had  not 
learned  to  value  your  love." 

"  And  Bab  ?  "  I  murmured,  my  brain  in  a 
whirl. 

u  Learned  long  ago,  poor  girl  !  " 

And  the  fair,  tear-stained  face  of  my  tyrant 
looked  into  mine  for  a  moment,  and  then  came 
quite  naturally  to  its  resting  place. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  when  I  was  leaving,  "  you 
may  have  your  hat,  sir." 

"  I  believe,"  I  replied,  "  that  you  sat  upon  this 
chair  on  purpose." 

And  Bab  blushed.      I  believe  she  did. 


44 


A  Strange  Invitation 
9 


T  HAVE  friends  who  tell  me  that  they  seldom 
•*•  walk  the  streets  of  London  without  wonder- 
ing what  is  passing  behind  the  house-fronts ;  with- 
out picturing  a  comedy  here,  a  love-scene  there, 
and  behind  the  dingy  cane  blinds  a  something 
ill-defined,  a  something  odd  and  bizarre.  They 
experience  —  if  you  believe  them  —  a  sense  of 
loneliness  out  in  the  street,  an  impatience  of  the 
sameness  of  all  these  many  houses,  their  dull  bricks 
and  discreet  windows,  and  a  longing  that  some  one 
would  step  out  and  ask  them  to  enter  and  see  the 
play. 

Well,  I  have  never  felt  any  of  these  things ; 
but  as  I  was  passing  through  Fitzhardinge  Square 
about  half- past  ten  o'clock  one  evening  in  last 
July,  after  dining,  if  I  remember  rightly,  in  Baker 
Street,  something  happened  to  me  which  I  fancy 
may  be  of  interest  to  such  people. 
45 


A  Strange  Invitation 

I  was  passing  through  the  square  from  north  to 
south,  and  to  avoid  a  small  crowd,  which  some  re- 
ception had  drawn  together,  I  left  the  pavement 
and  struck  across  the  road  to  the  path  round  the 
oval  garden ;  which,  by  the  way,  contains  a  few  of 
the  finest  trees  in  London.  This  part  was  in  deep 
shadow,  so  that  when  I  presently  emerged  from  it 
and  recrossed  the  road  to  the  pavement  near  the 
top  of  Fitzhardinge  Street,  I  had  an  advantage 
over  any  persons  on  the  pavement.  They  were 
under  the  lamps,  while  I,  coming  from  beneath  the 
trees,  was  almost  invisible. 

The  door  of  the  house  immediately  in  front  of 
me  as  I  crossed  was  open,  and  an  elderly  man- 
servant out  of  livery  was  standing  at  it,  looking  up 
and  down  the  pavement  by  turns.  It  was  his  air 
of  furtive  anxiety  that  drew  my  attention  to  him. 
He  was  not  like  a  man  looking  for  a  cab,  or  wait- 
ing for  his  sweetheart ;  and  I  had  my  eye  upon 
him  as  I  stepped  upon  the  pavement  before  him. 
But  my  surprise  was  great  when  he  uttered  a  low 
exclamation  of  dismay  at  sight  of  me  and  made  as 
if  he  would  escape ;  while  his  face,  in  the  full  glare 
of  the  light,  grew  so  pale  and  terror-stricken  that 
he  might  before  have  been  completely  at  his  ease. 
I  was  astonished  and  instinctively  stood  still  re- 
46 


A  Strange  Invitation 

turning  his  gaze ;  for  perhaps  twenty  seconds  we 
remained  so,  he  speechless,  and  his  hands  fallen  by 
his  side.  Then,  before  I  could  move  on,  as  I  was 
in  the  act  of  doing,  he  cried,  "  Oh  !  Mr.  George  ! 
Oh  !  Mr.  George  !  "  in  a  tone  that  rang  out  in 
the  stillness  rather  as  a  wail  than  an  ordinary 
cry. 

My  name,  my  surname  I  mean,  is  George.  For 
a  moment  I  took  the  address  to  myself,  forgetting 
that  the  man  was  a  stranger,  and  my  heart  began 
to  beat  more  quickly  with  fear  of  what  might  have 
happened.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  I  exclaimed.  "  What 
is  it  ?  "  and  I  shook  back  from  the  lower  part  of 
my  face  the  silk  muffler  I  was  wearing.  The 
evening  was  close,  but  I  had  been  suffering  from 
a  sore  throat. 

He  came  nearer  and  peered  more  closely  at  me, 
and  I  dismissed  my  fear ;  for  I  thought  that  I  could 
see  the  discovery  of  his  mistake  dawning  upon  him. 
His  pallid  face,  on  which  the  pallor  was  the  more 
noticeable  as  his  plump  features  were  those  of  a 
man  with  whom  the  world  as  a  rule  went  well,  re- 
gained some  of  its  lost  color,  and  a  sigh  of  relief 
passed  his  lips.  But  this  feeling  was  only  momen- 
tary. The  joy  of  escape  from  whatever  blow  he 
had  thought  imminent  gave  place  at  once  to  his 
47 


A  Strange  Invitation 

previous  state  of  miserable  expectancy  of  some- 
thing or  other. 

u  You  took  me  for  another  person,"  I  said,  pre- 
paring to  pass  on.  At  that  moment  I  could  have 
sworn  —  I  would  have  given  one  hundred  to  one 
twice  over  —  that  he  was  going  to  say  Yes.  To 
my  intense  astonishment,  he  did  not.  With  a  very 
visible  effort  he  said,  "  No  !  " 

"  Eh  !  What  ?  "  I  exclaimed.  I  had  taken  a 
step  or  two. 

"  No,  sir." 

"  Then  what  is  it  ?  "  I  said.  "  What  do  you 
want,  my  good  fellow  ?  " 

Watching  his  shuffling,  indeterminate  manner,  1 
wondered  if  he  were  sane.  His  next  answer  re- 
assured me  on  that  point.  There  was  an  almost 
desperate  deliberation  about  its  manner.  "  My 
master  wishes  to  see  you,  sir,  if  you  will  kindly 
walk  in  for  five  minutes,"  was  what  he  said. 

I  should  have  replied,  "  Who  is  your  master  ?  " 
if  I  had  been  wise ;  or  cried,  "  Nonsense  !  "  and 
gone  my  way.  But  the  mind  when  it  is  spurred 
by  a  sudden  emergency  often  overruns  the  more 
obvious  course  to  adopt  a  worse.  It  was  possible 
that  one  of  my  intimates  had  taken  the  house,  and 
said  in  his  butler's  presence  that  he  wished  to  see 
48 


A  Strange  Invitation 

me.  Thinking  of  that  I  answered,  "  Are  you 
sure  of  this  ?  Have  you  not  made  a  mistake,  my 
man  ?  " 

With  an  obstinate  sullenness  that  was  new  in 
him  he  said,  No,  he  had  not.  Would  I  please  to 
walk  in  ?  He  stepped  briskly  forward  as  he  spoke, 
and  induced  me  by  a  kind  of  gentle  urgency  to 
enter  the  house,  taking  from  me  with  the  ease  of 
a  trained  servant  my  hat,  coat,  and  muffler.  Find- 
ing himself  in  the  course  of  his  duties  he  gained 
more  composure  ;  while  I,  being  thus  treated,  lost 
my  sense  of  the  strangeness  of  the  proceeding,  and 
only  awoke  to  a  full  consciousness  of  my  position 
when  he  had  softly  shut  the  door  behind  us  and 
was  in  the  act  of  putting  up  the  chain. 

Then  I  confess  I  looked  round  a  little  alarmed 
at  my  precipitancy.  But  I  found  the  hall  spacious, 
lofty,  and  dark-panelled,  the  ordinary  hall  of  an  old 
London  house.  The  big  fireplace  was  filled  with 
plants  in  flower.  There  were  rugs  on  the  floor 
and  a  number  of  chairs  with  painted  crests  on  the 
backs,  and  in  a  corner  was  an  old  sedan  chair,  its 
poles  upright  against  the  wall. 

No  other  servants  were  visible,  it  is  true.     But 
apart  from  this  all  was  in  order,  all  was  quiet,  and 
any  idea  of  violence  was  manifestly  absurd. 
4  49 


A  Strange  Invitation 

At  the  same  time  the  affair  seemed  of  the  stran- 
gest. Why  should  the  butler  in  charge  of  a  well- 
arranged  and  handsome  house  —  the  house  of  an 
ordinary  wealthy  gentleman  —  why  should  he  loiter 
about  the  open  doorway  as  if  anxious  to  feel  the 
presence  of  his  kind  ?  Why  should  he  show  such 
nervous  excitement  and  terror  as  I  had  witnessed  ? 
Why  should  he  introduce  a  stranger  ? 

I  had  reached  this  point  when  he  led  the  way  up- 
stairs. The  staircase  was  wide,  the  steps  were  low 
and  broad.  On  either  side  at  the  head  of  the  flight 
stood  a  beautiful  Venus  of  white  Parian  marble. 
They  were  not  common  reproductions,  and  I 
paused.  I  could  see  beyond  them  a  Hercules  and 
a  Meleager  of  bronze,  and  delicately  tinted  draperies 
and  ottomans  that  under  the  light  of  a  silver  hang- 
ing-lamp—  a  gem  from  Malta  —  changed  a  mere 
lobby  to  a  fairies'  nook.  The  sight  rilled  me  with 
a  certain  suspicion  ;  which  was  dispelled,  however, 
when  my  hand  rested  for  an  instant  upon  the  red- 
dish pedestal  that  supported  one  of  the  statues. 
The  cold  touch  of  the  marble  was  enough  for  me. 
The  pillars  were  not  of  composite ;  of  which  they 
certainly  would  have  consisted  in  a  gaming-house, 
or  worse. 

Three  steps  carried  me  across  the  lobby  to  a 
5° 


A  Strange  Invitation 

curtained  doorway  by  which  the  servant  was  wait- 
ing. I  saw  that  the  "  shakes  "  were  upon  him 
again.  His  impatience  was  so  ill-concealed  that 
I  was  not  surprised  — though  I  was  taken  aback  — 
when  he  dropped  the  mask  altogether,  and  as  I 
passed  him  —  it  being  now  too  late  for  me  to  re- 
tre?t  undiscovered,  if  the  room  were  occupied  — 
laid  a  trembling  hand  upon  my  arm  and  thrust  his 
face  close  to  mine.  "  Ask  how  he  is  !  Say  any- 
thing," he  whispered  trembling,  "  no  matter  what, 
sir !  Only,  for  the  love  of  heaven,  stay  five 
minutes  !  " 

He  gave  me  a  gentle  push  forward  as  he  spoke 
—  pleasant  all  this  !  —  and  announced  in  a  loud, 
quavering  voice,  "Mr.  George!"  —  which  was 
true  enough.  I  found  myself  walking  round  a 
screen  at  the  same  time  that  something  in  the 
room,  a  long,  dimly-lighted  room,  fell  with  a  brisk, 
rattling  sound,  and  there  was  the  scuffling  noise 
of  a  person,  still  hidden  from  me  by  the  screen, 
rising  to  his  feet  in  haste. 

Next  moment  I  was  face  to  face  with  two  men. 
One,  a  handsome,  elderly  gentleman,  who  wore 
gray  moustaches  and  would  have  seemed  in  place 
at  a  service  club,  was  still  in  his  chair  regarding 
me  with  a  perfectly  calm,  unmoved  face,  as  if  my 


A  Strange  Invitation 

entrance  at  that  hour  were  the  commonest  incident 
of  his  life.  The  other  had  risen  and  stood  look- 
ing at  me  askance.  He  was  five-and-twenty  years 
younger  than  his  companion  and  as  good-looking 
in  a  different  way.  But  now  his  face  was  white 
and  drawn,  distorted  by  the  same  expression  of 
terror — ay,  and  a  darker  and  fiercer  terror  than 
that  which  I  had  already  seen  upon  the  servant's 
features;  it  was  the  face  of  one  in  a  desperate 
strait.  He  looked  as  a  man  looks  who  has  put 
all  he  has  in  the  world  upon  an  outsider  —  and 
done  it  twice.  In  that  quiet  drawing-room  by  the 
side  of  his  placid  companion,  with  nothing  what- 
ever in  their  surroundings  to  account  for  his 
emotion,  his  panic-stricken  face  shocked  me 
inexpressibly. 

They  were  in  evening  dress ;  and  between  them 
was  a  chess-table,  its  men  in  disorder :  almost 
touching  this  was  another  small  table  bearing  a 
tray  of  Apollinaris  water  and  spirits.  On  this  the 
young  man  was  resting  one  hand  as  if  but  for  its 
support  he  would  have  fallen. 

To  add  one  more  fact,  I  had  never  seen  either 
of  them  in  my  life. 

Or  wait ;  could  that  be  true  ?  If  so,  it  must  be 
indeed  a  nightmare  I  was  suffering.  For  the  elder 
52 


A  Strange.  Invitation 

man  broke  the  silence  by  addressing  me  in  a  quiet 
ordinary  tone  that  exactly  matched  his  face.  "  Sit 
down,  George,"  he  said,  "don't  stand  there.  I 
did  not  expect  you  this  evening."  He  held  out 
his  hand,  without  rising  from  his  chair,  and  I  ad- 
vanced and  shook  it  in  silence.  "  I  thought  you 
were  in  Liverpool.  How  are  you  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  Very  well,  I  thank  you,"  I  muttered  mechani- 
cally. 

"Not  very  well,  I  should  say,"  he  retorted. 
"You  are  as  hoarse  as  a  raven.  You  have  a  bad 
cold  at  best.  It  is  nothing  worse,  my  boy,  is  it  ?  " 
with  anxiety. 

"  No,  a  throat  cough ;  nothing  else,"  I  mur- 
mured, resigning  myself  to  this  astonishing  recep- 
tion —  this  evident  concern  for  my  welfare  on  the 
part  of  a  man  whom  I  had  never  seen  in  my  life. 

"  That  is  well !  "  he  answered  cheerily.  Not 
only  did  my  presence  cause  him  no  surprise.  It 
gave  him,  without  doubt,  actual  pleasure  ! 

It  was  otherwise  with  his  companion ;  grimly 
and  painfully  so  indeed.  He  had  made  no  ad- 
vances to  me,  spoken  no  word,  scarcely  altered  his 
position.  His  eyes  he  had  never  taken  from  me. 
Yet  in  him  there  was  a  change.  He  had  dis- 
covered, exactly  as  had  the  butler  before  him,  his 
S3 


A  Strange  Invitation 

mistake.  The  sickly  terror  was  gone  from  his 
face,  and  a  half-frightened  malevolence  not  much 
more  pleasant  to  witness  had  taken  its  place. 
Why  this  did  not  break  out  in  any  active  form  was 
part  of  the  general  mystery  given  to  me  to  solve. 
I  could  only  surmise  from  glances  which  he  later 
cast  from  time  to  time  towards  the  door,  and  from 
the  occasional  faint  creaking  of  a  board  in  that 
direction,  that  his  self-restraint  had  to  do  with  my 
friend  the  butler.  The  inconsequences  of  dream- 
land ran  through  it  all :  why  the  elder  man  re- 
mained in  error ;  why  the  younger  with  that 
passion  on  his  face  was  tongue-tied  ;  why  the 
great  house  was  so  still ;  why  the  servant  should 
have  mixed  me  up  with  this  business  at  all  —  these 
were  questions  as  unanswerable,  one  as  the  other. 

And  the  fog  in  my  mind  grew  denser  when  the 
old  gentleman  turned  from  me  as  if  my  presence 
were  a  usual  thing,  and  rapped  the  table  before 
him  impatiently.  "  Now,  Gerald  !  "  cried  he  in 
sharp  tones,  "  have  you  put  those  pieces  back  ? 
Good  heavens  !  I  am  glad  that  I  have  not  nerves 
like  yours  !  Don't  remember  the  squares,  boy  ? 
Here,  give  them  to  me  !  "  With  a  hasty  gesture 
of  his  hand,  something  like  a  mesmeric  pass  over 
the  board,  he  set  down  the  half-dozen  pieces  with 
54 


A  Strange  Invitation 

a  rapid  tap  !  tap  !  tap  !  which  made  it  abundantly 
clear  that  he,  at  any  rate,  had  no  doubt  of  their 
former  positions. 

"  You  will  not  mind  sitting  by  until  we  have 
finished  the  game  ?  "  he  continued,  speaking  to 
me,  and  in  a  voice  I  fancied  more  genial  than  that 
which  he  had  used  to  Gerald.  "  You  are  anxious 
to  talk  to  me  about  your  letter,  George  ?  "  he  went 
on  when  I  did  not  answer.  "  The  fact  is  that  I 
have  not  read  the  inclosure.  Barnes,  as  usual, 
read  the  outer  letter  to  me,  in  which  you  said  the 
matter  was  private  and  of  grave  importance;  and 
I  intended  to  go  to  Laura  to-morrow,  as  you  sug- 
gested, and  get  her  to  read  the  news  to  me.  Now 
you  have  returned  so  soon,  I  am  glad  that  I  did 
not  trouble  her." 

"  Just  so,  sir,"  I  said,  listening  with  all  my  ears  ; 
and  wondering. 

"  Well,  I  hope  there  is  nothing  very  bad  the 
matter,  my  boy?"  he  replied.  "However  — 
Gerald  !  it  is  your  move  ! — ten  minutes  more  of 
such  play  as  your  brother's,  and  I  shall  be  at  your 
service." 

Gerald  made  a  hurried  move.  The  piece  rat- 
tled upon  the  board  as  if  he  had  been  playing  the 
castanets.  His  father  made  him  take  it  back.  I 
55 


A  Strange  Invitation 

sat  watching  the  two  in  wonder  and  silence. 
What  did  it  all  mean  ?  Why  should  Barnes  — 
doubtless  behind  the  screen  listening  —  read  the 
outer  letter  ?  Why  must  Laura  be  employed  to 
read  the  inner  ?  Why  could  not  this  cultivated 
and  refined  gentleman  before  me  read  his  —  Ah  ! 
That  much  was  disclosed  to  me.  A  mere  turn  of 
the  hand  did  it.  He  had  made  another  of  those 
passes  over  the  board,  and  I  learned  from  it  what 
an  ordinary  examination  would  not  have  detected. 
He,  the  old  soldier  with  the  placid  face  and  light- 
blue  eyes,  was  blind  !  Quite  blind  ! 

I  began  to  see  more  clearly  now,  and  from  this 
moment  I  took  up,  at  any  rate  in  my  own  mind, 
a  different  position.  Possibly  the  servant  who  had 
impelled  me  into  the  middle  of  this  had  had  his 
own  good  reasons  for  doing,  so,  as  I  now  began  to 
discern.  But  with  a  clue  to  the  labyrinth  in  my 
hand  I  could  no  longer  move  passively  at  any 
other's  impulse.  I  must  act  for  myself.  For  a 
while  I  sat  still  and  made  no  sign.  My  suspicions 
were  presently  confirmed.  The  elder  man  more 
than  once  scolded  his  opponent  for  playing  slowly ; 
in  one  of  these  intervals  he  took  from  an  inside 
pocket  of  his  dress  waistcoat  a  small  packet. 

"  You  had  better  take  your  letter,  George,"  he 
56 


A  Strange  Invitation 

said.  "  If  there  are,  as  you  mentioned,  originals 
in  it,  they  will  be  more  safe  with  you  than  with 
me.  You  can  tell  me  all  about  it,  viva  voce^ 
now  you  are  here.  Gerald  will  leave  us  alone 
presently." 

He  held  the  papers  towards  me.  To  take  them 
would  be  to  take  an  active  part  in  the  imposture, 
and  I  hesitated,  my  own  hand  half  outstretched. 
But  my  eyes  fell  at  the  critical  instant  upon 
Master  Gerald's  face,  and  my  scruples  took  them- 
selves off.  He  was  eyeing  the  packet  with  an 
intense  greed,  and  a  trembling  longing  — a  very 
itching  of  the  fingers  and  toes,  to  fall  upon  the 
prey  —  that  put  an  end  to  my  doubts.  I  rose  and 
took  the  papers.  With  a  quiet,  but  I  think  sig- 
nificant, look  in  his  direction,  I  placed  them  in  the 
breast-pocket  of  my  evening  coat.  I  had  no  safer 
receptacle  about  me,  or  into  that  they  would  have 
gone. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  I  said.  "  There  is  no  par- 
ticular hurry.  I  think  the  matter  will  keep,  as 
things  now  are,  until  to-morrow." 

"  To  be  sure.     You  ought  not  to  be  out  with 

such  a  cold  at  night,  my  boy,"  he  answered.     "  You 

will   find   a  decanter  of  the   Scotch  whiskey  you 

gave   me   last   Christmas  on  the  tray.     Will  you 

57 


A  Strange  Invitation 

have  some  hot  water  and  a  lemon,  George  ?  The 
servants  are  all  at  the  theatre  —  Gerald  begged  a 
holiday  for  them  —  but  Barnes  will  get  you  the 
things  in  a  minute." 

"  Thank  you  ;  I  won't  trouble  him.  I  will  take 
some  with  cold  water/'  1  replied,  thinking  I  should 
gain  in  this  way  what  I  wanted  —  time  to  think  : 
five  minutes  to  myself,  while  they  played. 

But  I  was  out  in  my  reckoning.  "  I  will  have 
mine  now  too,"  he  said.  "  Will  you  mix  it, 
Gerald  ? " 

Gerald  jumped  up  to  do  it  with  tolerable  alacrity. 
I  sat  still,  preferring  to  help  myself,  when  he  should 
have  attended  to  his  father  —  if  his  father  it  was. 
I  felt  more  easy  now  that  I  had  those  papers  in  my 
pocket.  The  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more 
certain  I  became  that  they  were  the  object  aimed 
at  by  whatever  devilry  was  on  foot ;  and  that  posses- 
sion of  them  gave  me  the  whip-hand.  My  young 
gentleman  might  snarl  and  show  his  teeth,  but  the 
prize  had  escaped  him. 

Perhaps  I  was  a  little  too  confident:  a  little  too 
contemptuous  of  my  opponent ;  a  little  too  proud 
of  the  firmness  with  which  I  had  taken  at  one  and 
the  same  time  the  responsibility  and  the  post  of 
vantage.  A  creak  of  the  board  behind  the  screen 
58 


A  Strange  Invitation 

roused  me  from  my  thoughts.  It  fell  upon  my 
ear  trumpet-tongued  :  a  sudden  note  of  warning.  I 
glanced  up  with  a  start,  and  a  conviction  that  I 
was  being  caught  napping,  and  looked  instinctively 
towards  the  young  man.  He  was  busy  at  the 
tray,  his  back  to  me.  Relieved  of  my  fear  of  I 
I  did  not  know  what  —  perhaps  a  desperate  attack 
upon  my  pocket,  I  was  removing  my  eyes,  when, 
in  doing  so,  I  caught  sight  of  his  reflection  in  a 
small  mirror  beyond  him.  Ah  ! 

What  was  he  busy  about  ?  Nothing.  Abso- 
lutely nothing,  at  the  moment.  He  was  standing 
motionless  —  I  could  fancy  him  breathless  also  — 
a  strange  listening  expression  on  his  face  ;  which 
seemed  to  me  to  have  faded  to  a  grayish  tinge. 
His  left  hand  was  clasping  a  half-filled  tumbler: 
the  other  was  at  his  waistcoat  pocket.  So  he  stood 
during  perhaps  a  second  or  two,  a  small  lamp  upon 
the  tray  before  him  illumining  his  handsome  figure  ; 
and  then  his  eyes,  glancing  up,  met  the  reflection  of 
mine  in  the  mirror.  Swiftly  as  the  thought  itself 
could  pass  from  brain  to  limb,  the  hand  which  had 
been  resting  in  the  pocket  flashed  with  a  clatter 
among  the  glasses;  and  turning  almost  as  quickly, 
he  brought  one  of  the  latter  to  the  chess-table,  and 
set  it  down  unsteadily. 

59 


A  Strange  Invitation 

What  had  I  seen  !  Nothing ;  actually  nothing. 
Just  what  Gerald  had  been  doing.  Yet  my  heart 
was  going  as  many  strokes  to  the  minute  as  a 
losing  crew.  I  rose  abruptly. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  sir,"  I  said,  as  the  elder  man 
laid  his  hand  upon  the  glass,  "  I  don't  think  that 
Gerald  has  mixed  this  quite  as  you  like  it." 

He  had  already  lifted  it  to  his  lips.  I  looked 
from  him  to  Gerald.  That  young  gentleman's 
color,  though  he  faced  me  hardily,  shifted  more 
than  once,  and  he  seemed  to  be  swallowing  a  suc- 
cession of  over-sized  fives-balls ;  but  his  eyes  met 
mine  in  a  vicious  kind  of  smile  that  was  not 
without  its  gleam  of  triumph.  I  was  persuaded 
that  all  was  right  even  before  his  father  said  so. 

"  Perhaps  you  have  mixed  for  me,  Gerald  ?  "  I 
suggested  pleasantly. 

u  No  !  "  he  answered  in  sullen  defiance.  He 
filled  a  glass  with  something — perhaps  it  was 
water — and  drank  it,  his  back  towards  me.  He 
had  not  spoken  so  much  as  a  single  word  to  me 
before. 

The  blind  man's  ear  recognized  the  tone  now. 

"  I   wish  you  boys   would  agree    better,"  he  said 

wearily.     "  Gerald,  go  to  bed.     I  would  as  soon  play 

chess  with  an   idiot    from   Earlswood.      Generally 

60 


A  Strange  Invitation 

you  can  play  the  game  if  you  are  good  for  nothing 
else ;  but  since  your  brother  came  in,  you  have  not 
made  a  move  which  any  one  not  an  imbecile  would 
make.  Go  to  bed,  boy  !  Go  to  bed  !  " 

I  had  stepped  to  the  table  while  he  was  speak- 
ing. One  of  the  glasses  was  full.  I  lifted  it  with 
seeming  unconcern  to  my  nose.  There  was 
whiskey  in  it  as  well  as  water.  Then  had  Gerald 
mixed  for  me  ?  At  any  rate,  I  put  the  tumbler 
aside,  and  helped  myself  afresh.  When  I  set  the 
glass  down  empty,  my  mind  was  made  up. 

"  Gerald  does  not  seem  inclined  to  move,  sir,  so 
I  will,"  I  said  quietly.  "  I  will  call  in  the  morn- 
ing and  discuss  that  matter,  if  it  will  suit  you.  But 
to-night  I  feel  inclined  to  get  to  bed  early." 

"  Quite  right,  my  boy.  I  would  ask  you  to 
take  a  bed  here  instead  of  turning  out,  but  I  sup- 
pose that  Laura  will  be  expecting  you.  Come  in 
any  time  to-morrow  morning.  Shall  Barnes  call 
a  cab  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  will  walk,"  I  answered,  shaking  the 
proffered  hand.  "  By  the  way,  sir,"  I  added,  "have 
you  heard  who  is  the  new  Home  Secretary  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Henry  Matthews,"  he  replied.  "  Gerald 
told  me.  He  had  heard  it  at  the  Club." 

"It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  have  no  woman- 
61 


A  Strange  Invitation 

ish  scruples  about  capital  punishment,"  I  said,  as 
if  I  were  incidentally  considering  the  appointment. 
And  with  that  last  shot  at  Mr.  Gerald — he  turned 
green,  I  thought,  a  color  which  does  not  go  well 
with  a  black  moustache — I  walked  out  of  the 
room,  so  peaceful,  so  cosy,  so  softly  lighted,  as  it 
looked,  I  remember  j  and  downstairs.  I  hoped 
that  I  had  paralyzed  the  young  fellow,  and  might 
leave  the  house  without  molestation. 

But  as  I  gained  the  foot  of  the  stairs  he  tapped 
me  on  the  shoulder.  I  saw  then,  looking  at  him, 
that  I  had  mistaken  my  man.  Every  trace  of  the 
sullen  defiance  which  had  marked  his  manner 
throughout  the  interview  upstairs  was  gone.  His 
face  was  still  pale,  but  it  wore  a  gentle  smile  as 
we  confronted  one  another  under  the  hall  lamp. 
"  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  you,  but  let 
me  thank  you  for  your  help,"  he  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  yet  with  a  kind  of  frank  spontaneity. 
"  Barnes's  idea  of  bringing  you  in  was  a  splendid 
one,  and  I  am  immensely  obliged  to  you." 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  I  answered  stiffly,  pro- 
ceeding with  my  preparations  for  going  out,  as  if 
he  were  not  there;  although  I  must  confess  that 
this  complete  change  in  him  exercised  my  mind 
no  little. 

62 


A  Strange  Invitation 

"  I  feel  so  sure  that  we  may  rely  upon  your 
discretion,"  he  went  on,  ignoring  my  tone,  "  that 
I  need  say  nothing  about  that.  Of  course  we 
owe  you  an  explanation,  but  as  your  cold  is 
really  yours  and  not  my  brother's,  you  will  not 
mind  if  I  read  you  the  riddle  to-morrow  instead 
of  keeping  you  from  your  bed  to-night  ?  " 

"  It  will  do  equally  well  —  indeed  better,"  I 
said,  putting  on  my  overcoat,  and  buttoning  it 
carefully  across  my  chest,  while  I  affected  to 
be  looking  with  curiosity  at  the  sedan  chair. 

He  pointed  lightly  to  the  place  where  the 
packet  lay.  "  You  are  forgetting  the  papers," 
he  reminded  me.  His  tone  almost  compelled  the 
answer,  "  To  be  sure." 

But  I  had  pretty  well  made  up  my  mind,  and 
I  answered  instead,  "Not  at  all.  They  are  quite 
safe,  thank  you." 

"  But  you  don't  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  " 
he  said,  opening  his  eyes  very  wide,  as  if  some 
new  light  were  beginning  to  shine  upon  his  mind 
and  he  could  scarcely  believe  its  revelations. 
"  You  don't  really  mean  that  you  are  going  to  take 
those  papers  away  with  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"My    dear    sir!"    he    remonstrated    earnestly. 
63 


A  Strange  Invitation 

"This  is  preposterous.  Pray  forgive  me  the  re- 
minder, but  those  papers,  as  my  father  gave  you 
to  understand,  are  private  papers,  which  he  sup- 
posed himself  to  be  handing  to  my  brother, 
George." 

"  Just  so  !  "  was  all  I  said.  And  I  took  a  step 
towards  the  door. 

"  You  really  mean  to  take  them  ?  "  he  asked 
seriously. 

"I  do  ;  unless  you  can  satisfactorily  explain 
the  part  I  have  played  this  evening.  And  also 
make  it  clear  to  me  that  you  have  a  right  to  the 
possession  of  the  papers." 

"  Confound  it  !  If  I  must  do  so  to-night,  I 
must !  "  he  said  reluctantly.  "  I  trust  to  your 
honor,  sir,  to  keep  the  explanation  secret."  I 
bowed,  and  he  resumed.  "  My  elder  brother 
and  I  are  in  business  together.  Lately  we 
have  had  losses  which  have  crippled  us  so 
severely  that  we  decided  to  disclose  them  to 
Sir  Charles  and  ask  his  help.  George  did  so 
yesterday  by  letter,  giving  certain  notes  of  our 
liabilities.  You  ask  why  he  did  not  make  such 
a  statement  by  word  of  mouth  ?  Because  he  had 
to  go  to  Liverpool  at  a  moment's  notice  to  make 
a  last  effort  to  arrange  the  matter.  And  as  for 
64 


A  Strange  Invitation 

me,"  with  a  curious  grimace,  u  my  father  would 
as  soon  discuss  business  with  his  dog  !  Sooner  !  " 

"  Well  ? "  I  said.  He  had  paused,  and  was 
absently  flicking  the  blossoms  off  the  geraniums 
in  the  fireplace  with  his  pocket-handkerchief,  look- 
ing moodily  at  his  work  the  while.  I  cannot 
remember  noticing  the  handkerchief,  yet  I  seem  to 
be  able  to  see  it  now.  It  had  a  red  border,  and 
was  heavily  scented  with  white  rose.  "  Well  ?  " 

"  Well,"  he  continued,  with  a  visible  effort, 
"  my  father  has  been  ailing  lately,  and  this  morn- 
ing his  usual  doctor  made  him  see  Bristowe.  He 
is  an  authority  on  heart-disease,  as  you  doubtless 
know  ;  and  his  opinion  is,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
voice  and  with  some  emotion,  "  that  even  a  slight 
shock  may  prove  fatal." 

I  began  to  feel  hot  and  uncomfortable.  What 
was  I  to  think  ?  The  packet  was  becoming  as 
lead  in  my  pocket. 

"  Of  course,"  he  resumed  more  briskly,  "  that 
threw  our  difficulties  into  the  shade  at  once; 
and  my  first  impulse  was  to  get  these  papers  from 
him.  Don't  you  see  that  ?  All  day  I  have  been 
trying  in  vain  to  effect  it.  I  took  Barnes,  who 
is  an  old  servant,  partially  into  my  confidence, 
but  we  could  think  of  no  plan.  My  father,  like 
5  65 


A  Strange  Invitation 

many  people  who  have  lost  their  sight,  is  jealous, 
and  I  was  at  my  wits'  end,  when  Barnes  brought 
you  up.  Your  likeness,"  he  added  in  a  parenthesis, 
looking  at  me  reflectively,  "  to  George  put  the 
idea  into  his  head,  I  fancy  ?  Yes,  it  must  have 
been  so.  When  I  heard  you  announced,  for  a 
moment  I  thought  you  were  George." 

"  And  you  called  up  a  look  of  the  warmest 
welcome,"  I  put  in  dryly. 

He  colored,  but  answered  almost  immediately, 
"  I  was  afraid  that  he  would  assume  that  the 
governor  had  read  his  letter,  and  blurt  out  some- 
thing about  it.  Good  Lord  !  if  you  knew  the 
funk  in  which  I  have  been  all  the  evening  lest 
my  father  should  ask  either  of  us  to  read  the 
letter ! "  and  he  gathered  up  his  handkerchief 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  wiped  his  forehead. 

"I  could  see  it  very  plainly,"  I  answered,  going 
slowly  in  my  mind  over  what  he  had  told  me. 
If  the  truth  must  be  confessed,  I  was  in  no  slight 
quandary  what  I  should  do,  or  what  I  should 
believe.  Was  this  really  the  key  to  it  all  ? 
Dared  I  doubt  it,  or  that  that  which  I  had 
constructed  was  a  mare's  nest,  — the  mere  frame- 
work of  a  mare's  nest.  For  the  life  of  me  I 
could  not  tell ! 

66 


A  Strange  Invitation 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said  presently,  looking  up  with  an 
offended  air.  "  Is  there  anything  else  I  can 
explain  ?  or  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  return 
my  property  to  me  now  ?  " 

u  There  is  one  thing  about  which  I  should 
like  to  ask  a  question,"  I  said. 

"  Ask  on,"  he  replied  ;  and  I  wondered  whether 
there  was  not  a  little  too  much  of  bravado  in  the 
tone  of  sufferance  he  assumed. 

"  Why  do  you  carry  —  "I  went  on,  raising  my 
eyes  to  his,  and  pausing  on  the  word  an  instant  — 
"  that  little  medicament  — you  know  what  I  mean 
—  in  your  waistcoat  pocket,  my  friend  ?  " 

He  perceptibly  flinched.  "I  don't  quite  — 
quite  understand,"  he  began  to  stammer.  Then 
he  changed  his  tone  and  went  on  rapidly,  "  No ! 
I  will  be  frank  with  you,  Mr.  —  Mr.  —  " 

"  George,"  I  said,  calmly. 

"  Ah,  indeed  ?  "  a  trifle  surprised, "  Mr.  George  ! 
Well,  it  is  something  Bristowe  gave  me  this  morn- 
ing to  be  administered  to  my  father  —  without  his 
knowledge,  if  possible  —  whenever  he  grows  ex- 
cited. I  did  not  think  that  you  had  seen  it." 

Nor  had  I.  I  had  only  inferred  its  presence. 
But  having  inferred  rightly  once,  I  was  inclined 
to  trust  my  inference  farther.  Moreover  while 
67 


A  Strange  Invitation 

he  gave  this  explanation,  his  breath  came  and 
went  so  quickly  that  my  former  suspicions  re- 
turned. I  was  ready  for  him  when  he  said, "  Now 
I  will  trouble  you,  if  you  please,  for  those  papers  !  " 
and  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  cannot  give  them  to  you,"  I  replied,  point 
blank. 

"  You  cannot  give  them  to  me  now  ? "  he 
repeated. 

"  No.  Moreover  the  packet  is  sealed.  I  do 
not  see,  on  second  thoughts,  what  harm  I  can  do 
you  —  now  that  it  is  out  of  your  father's  hands  — 
by  keeping  it  until  to-morrow,  when  I  will  return 
it  to  your  brother,  from  whom  it  came." 

"  He  will  not  be  in  London,"  he  answered 
doggedly.  He  stepped  between  me  and  the  door 
with  looks  which  I  did  not  like.  At  the  same 
time  I  felt  that  some  allowance  must  be  made  for 
a  man  treated  in  this  way. 

u  I  am  sorry,"  I  said,  "  but  I  cannot  do  what 
you  ask.  I  will  do  this,  however.  If  you  think 
the  delay  of  importance,  and  will  give  me  your 
brother's  address  in  Liverpool,  I  will  undertake  to 
post  the  letters  to  him  at  once." 

He  considered  the  offer,  eyeing  me  the  while 
with  the  same  disfavor  which  he  had  exhibited  in 
68 


A  Strange  Invitation 

the  drawing-room.  At  last  he  said  slowly,  "If 
you  will  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  I  repeated.  "  I  will  do  it  immedi- 
ately." 

He  gave  me  the  direction  —  "George  Rither- 
don,  at  the  London  and  North-Western  Hotel, 
Liverpool,"  and  in  return  I  gave  him  my  own 
name  and  address.  Then  I  parted  from  him,  with 
a  civil  good-night  on  either  side  —  and  little  liking 
I  fancy  —  the  clocks  striking  midnight,  and  the 
servants  coming  in  as  I  passed  out  into  the  cool 
darkness  of  the  square. 

Late  as  it  was,  I  went  straight  to  my  club,  de- 
termined that  as  I  had  assumed  the  responsibility 
there  should  be  no  laches  on  my  part.  There  I 
placed  the  packet,  together  with  a  short  note  ex- 
plaining how  it  came  into  my  possession,  in  an 
outer  envelope,  and  dropped  the  whole  duly 
directed  and  stamped  into  the  nearest  pillar  box. 
I  could  not  register  it  at  that  hour,  and  rather  than 
wait  until  next  morning,  I  omitted  the  precaution, 
merely  requesting  Mr.  Ritherdon  to  acknowledge 
its  receipt. 

Well,  some  days  passed  during  which  it  may  be 
imagined  that  I  thought  no  little  about  my  odd  ex- 
perience. It  was  the  story  of  the  Lady  and  the 
69 


A  Strange  Invitation 

Tiger  over  again.  I  had  the  choice  of  two  alter- 
natives at  least.  I  might  either  believe  the  young 
fellow's  story,  which  certainly  had  the  merit  of  ex- 
plaining in  a  fairly  probable  manner  an  occurrence 
of  so  odd  a  character  as  not  to  lend  itself  freely  to 
explanation.  Or  I  might  disbelieve  his  story, 
plausible  in  its  very  strangeness  as  it  was,  in  favor 
of  my  own  vague  suspicions.  Which  was  I  to 
do? 

Well,  I  set  out  by  preferring  the  former  alterna- 
tive. This  notwithstanding  that  I  had  to  some 
extent  committed  myself  against  it  by  withholding 
the  papers.  But  with  each  day  that  passed  with- 
out bringing  me  an  answer  from  Liverpool,  I 
leaned  more  and  more  to  the  other  side.  I  began 
to  pin  my  faith  to  the  tiger,  adding  each  morning 
a  point  to  the  odds  in  the  animal's  favor.  So  it 
went  on  until  ten  days  had  passed. 

Then  a  little  out  of  curiosity,  but  more,  I 
gravely  declare,  because  I  thought  it  the  right 
thing  to  do,  I  resolved  to  seek  out  George  Rither- 
don.  I  had  no  difficulty  in  learning  where  he 
might  be  found.  I  turned  up  the  firm  of  Rither- 
don  Brothers  (George  and  Gerald),  cotton-spinners 
and  India  merchants,  in  the  first  directory  I  con- 
sulted. And  about  noon  the  next  day  I  called  at 
70 


A  Strange  Invitation 

their  place  of  business,  and  sent  in  my  card  to  the 
senior  partner.  I  waited  five  minutes  —  curiously 
scanned  by  the  porter,  who  no  doubt  saw  a  likeness 
between  me  and  his  employer — and  then  I  was 
admitted  to  the  latter's  room. 

He  was  a  tall  man  with  a  fair  beard,  not  one 
whit  like  Gerald,  and  yet  tolerably  good-looking ; 
if  I  say  more  I  shall  seem  to  be  describing  myself. 
I  fancied  him  to  be  balder  about  the  temples,  how- 
ever, and  grayer  and  more  careworn  than  the  man 
I  am  in  the  habit  of  seeing  in  my  shaving-glass. 
His  eyes,  too,  had  a  hard  look,  and  he  seemed  in 
ill-health.  All  these  things  I  took  in  later.  At 
the  time  I  only  noticed  his  clothes.  "  So  the  old 
gentleman  is  dead,"  I  thought,  "  and  the  young 
one's  tale  is  true  after  all ! "  George  Ritherdon 
was  in  deep  mourning. 

"  I  wrote  to  you,"  I  began,  taking  the  seat  to 
which  he  pointed,  "about  a  fortnight  ago." 

He  looked  at  my  card,  which  he  held  in  his 
hand.  "  I  think  not,"  he  said  slowly. 

"Yes,"  I  repeated.  "You  were  then  at  the 
London  and  North-Western  Hotel,  at  Liverpool." 

He  was  stepping  to  his  writing-table,  but  he 
stopped  abruptly.  "  I  was  in  Liverpool,"  he 
answered  in  a  different  tone,  "  but  I  was  not  at 


A  Strange  Invitation 

that  hotel.  You  are  thinking  of  my  brother,  are 
you  not  ? " 

"  No,"  I  said,  "  it  was  your  brother  who  told 
me  you  were  there." 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better  explain  what  was  the 
subject  of  your  letter,"  he  suggested,  speaking  in 
the  weary  tone  of  one  returning  to  a  painful  mat- 
ter. "  I  have  been  through  a  great  trouble  lately, 
and  this  may  well  have  been  overlooked." 

I  said  I  would,  and  as  briefly  as  possible  I  told 
the  main  facts  of  my  strange  visit  in  Fitzhardinge 
Square.  He  was  much  moved,  walking  up  and 
down  the  room  as  he  listened,  and  giving  vent  to 
exclamations  from  time  to  time,  until  I  came  to 
the  arrangement  I  had  finally  made  with  his 
brother.  Then  he  raised  his  hand  as  one  might  do 
in  pain. 

"  Enough  !  "  he  said  abruptly.  "  Barnes  told 
me  a  rambling  tale  of  some  stranger.  I  under- 
stand it  all  now." 

"  So  do  I,  I  think  !  "  I  replied  dryly.  "  Your 
brother  went  to  Liverpool,  and  received  the  papers 
in  your  name  ?  " 

He  murmured  what  I  took  for  "  Yes."  But  he 
did  not  utter  a  single  word  of  acknowledgement  to 
me,  or  of  reprobation  of  his  brother's  deceit.  I 
72 


A  Strange  Invitation 

thought  some  such  word  should  have  been  spoken ; 
and  I  let  my  feelings  carry  me  away.  "  Let  me 
tell  you,"  I  said  warmly,  "  that  your  brother 
is  a  —  " 

"  Hush ! "  he  said,  holding  up  his  hand  again. 
"  He  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !  "   I  repeated,  shocked  and  amazed. 

"  Have  you  not  read  of  it  in  the  papers  ?  It  is 
in  all  the  papers,"  he  said  wearily.  "  He  com- 
mitted suicide  —  God  forgive  me  for  it !  —  at  Liver- 
pool, at  the  hotel  you  have  mentioned,  and  the 
day  after  you  saw  him." 

And  so  it  was.  He  had  committed  some  se- 
rious forgery  —  he  had  always  been  wild,  though 
his  father,  slow  to  see  it,  had  only  lately  closed  his 
purse  to  him  —  and  the  forged  signatures  had  come 
into  his  brother's  power.  He  had  cheated  his 
brother  before.  There  had  long  been  bad  blood 
between  them,  the  one  being  as  cold,  business-like, 
and  masterful  as  the  other  was  idle  and  jealous. 

"  I  told  him,"  the  elder  said  to  me,  shading  his 
eyes  with  his  hand,  "  that  I  should  let  him  be  pros- 
ecuted—  that  I  would  not  protect  or  shelter  him. 
The  threat  nearly  drove  him  mad ;  and  while  it 
was  hanging  over  him,  I  wrote  to  disclose  the 
matter  to  Sir  Charles.  Gerald  thought  his  last 
73 


A  Strange  Invitation 

chance  lay  in  recovering  this  letter  unread.  The 
proofs  against  him  destroyed,  he  might  laugh  at 
me.  His  first  attempts  failed;  and  then  he 
planned  with  Barnes's  cognizance  to  get  possession 
of  the  packet  by  drugging  my  father's  whiskey. 
Barnes's  courage  deserted  him  j  he  called  you  in, 
and  —  and  you  know  the  rest." 

"  But,"  I  said  softly,  "  your  brother  did  get  the 
letter- — at  Liverpool." 

George  Ritherdon  groaned.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
u  he  did.  But  the  proofs  were  not  enclosed. 
After  writing  the  outside  letter  I  changed  my  mind, 
and  withheld  them,  explaining  my  reasons  within. 
He  found  his  plot  laid  in  vain ;  and  it  was  under 
the  shock  of  this  disappointment  —  the  packet  lay 
before  him  re-sealed  and  directed  to  me  —  that  he 
—  that  he  did  it.  Poor  Gerald  !  " 

"  Poor  Gerald  !  "  I  said.  What  else  remained 
to  be  said  ? 

It  may  be  a  survival  of  superstition,  yet  when  I 
dine  in  Baker  Street  now,  I  take  some  care  to  go 
home  by  any  other  route  than  that  through  Fitz- 
hardinge  Square. 


74 


The  Invisible  Portraits. 


ON  a  certain  morning  in  last  June  I  was  stoop- 
ing to  fasten  a  shoe-lace,  having  taken 
advantage  for  the  purpose  of  the  step  of  a  corner 
house  in  St.  James's  Square,  when  a  man  passing 
behind  me  stopped. 

"  Well !  "  said  he,  aloud,  after  a  short  pause 
during  which  I  wondered  —  I  could  not  see  him  — 
what  he  was  doing,  "  the  meanness  of  these  rich 
folk  is  disgusting !  Not  a  coat  of  paint  for  a 
twelvemonth  !  I  should  be  ashamed  to  own  a 
house  and  leave  it  like  that  !  " 

The  man  was  a  stranger  to  me,  and  his  words 
seemed  as  uncalled  for  as  they  were  ill-natured. 
But  being  thus  challenged  I  looked  at  the  house. 
It  was  a  great  stone  mansion  with  a  balustrade  atop, 
with  many  windows  and  a  long  stretch  of  area  rail- 
ings. And  certainly  it  was  shabby.  I  turned 
from  it  to  the  critic.  He  was  shabby  too  —  a 
little  red-nosed  man  wearing  a  bad  hat.  "  It  is 
75 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

just   possible,"  I   suggested,  "  that  the  owner  may 
be  a  poor  man  and  unable  to  keep  it  in  order." 

"  Ugh  !  What  has  that  to  do  with  it  ?  "  my  new 
friend  answered  contemptuously.  "  He  ought  to 
think  of  the  public." 

"  And  your  hat  ?  "  I  asked  with  winning  polite- 
ness. "  It  strikes  me,  an  unprejudiced  observer, 
as  a  bad  hat.  Why  do  you  not  get  a  new  one? " 

"  Cannot  afford  it !  "  he  snapped  out,  his  dull 
eyes  sparkling  with  rage. 

"  Cannot  afford  it  ?  But,  my  good  man,  you 
ought  to  think  of  the  public." 

"  You  tom-cat !  What  have  you  to  do  with  my 
hat?  Smother  you  !"  was  his  kindly  answer;  and 
he  went  on  his  way  muttering  things  uncompli- 
mentary. 

I  was  about  to  go  mine,  and  was  first  falling 
back  to  gain  a  better  view  of  the  house  in  question, 
when  a  chuckle  close  to  me  betrayed  the  presence 
of  a  listener,  a  thin,  gray-haired  man,  who,  hidden 
by  a  pillar  of  the  porch,  must  have  heard  our  dis- 
cussion. His  hands  were  engaged  with  a  white 
tablecloth,  from  which  he  had  been  shaking  the 
crumbs.  He  had  the  air  of  an  upper  servant  of 
the  best  class.  As  our  eyes  met  he  spoke. 

"  Neatly  put,  sir,  if  I   may  take  the  liberty   of 
76 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

saying  so,"  he  observed  with  a  quiet  dignity  it  was 
a  pleasure  to  witness,  "  and  we  are  very  much 
obliged  to  you.  The  man  was  a  snob,  sir." 

"  I  am  afraid  he  was,"  I  answered  ;  "  and  a 
fool  too." 

"  And  a  fool,  sir.  Answer  a  fool  after  his  folly. 
You  did  that,  and  he  was  nowhere ;  nowhere  at  all, 
except  in  the  swearing  line.  Now  might  I  ask," 
he  continued,  "  if  you  are  an  American,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  I  answered  ;  "  but  I  have 
spent  some  time  in  the  States." 

I  could  have  fancied  that  he  sighed. 

"I  thought  —  but  never  mind,  sir,"  he  began. 
"  I  was  wrong.  It  is  curious  how  very  much 
alike  gentlemen,  that  are  real  gentlemen,  speak. 
Now,  I  dare  swear,  sir,  that  you  have  a  taste  for 
pictures." 

I  was  inclined  to  humor  the  old  fellow's  mood. 

"  I  like  a  good  picture,  I  admit,"  I  said. 

"  Then  perhaps  you  would  not  be  offended  if  I 
asked  you  to  step  inside  and  look  at  one  or  two," 
he  suggested  timidly.  "  I  would  not  take  a  liberty, 
sir,  but  there  are  some  Van  Dycks  and  a  Rubens 
in  the  dining-room  that  cost  a  mint  of  money  in 
their  day,  I  have  heard  ;  and  there  is  no  one  else 
in  the  house  but  my  wife  and  myself." 
77 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

It  was  a  strange  invitation,  strangely  brought 
about.  But  I  saw  no  reason  for  myself  why  1 
should  not  accept  it,  and  I  followed  him  into  the 
hall.  It  was  spacious,  but  sparely  furnished. 
The  matted  floor  had  a  cold  look,  and  so  had  the 
gaunt  stand  which  seemed  to  be  a  fixture,  and 
boasted  but  one  umbrella,  one  sunshade,  and  one 
dog-whip.  As  I  passed  a  half-open  door  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  a  small  room  prettily  furnished,  with 
dainty  prints  and  water-colors  on  the  walls.  But 
these  were  of  a  common  order.  A  dozen  replicas 
of  each  and  all  might  be  seen  in  a  walk  through 
Bond  Street.  Even  this  oasis  of  taste  and  comfort 
told  the  same  story  as  had  the  bare  hall  and 
dreary  exterior,  and  laid  as  it  were  a  finger  on 
one's  heart.  I  trod  softly  as  I  followed  my  guide 
along  the  strip  of  matting  towards  the  rear  of  the 
house. 

He  opened  a  door  at  the  inner  end  of  the  hall, 
and  led  me  into  a  large  and  lofty  room,  built  out 
from  the  back,  as  a  state  dining-room  or  ball-room. 
At  present  it  rather  resembled  the  latter,  for  it  was 
without  furniture.  "  Now,"  said  the  old  man, 
turning  and  respectfully  touching  my  sleeve  to  gain 
my  attention,  u  now  you  will  not  consider  your 
labor  lost  in  coming  to  see  that,  sir.  It  is  a  por- 
78 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

trait  of  the  second  Lord  Wetherby  by  Sir  Anthony 
Van  Dyck,  and  is  judged  to  be  one  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  his  style  in  existence." 

I  was  lost  in  astonishment ;  amazed,  almost 
appalled.  My  companion  stood  by  my  side,  his 
face  wearing  a  placid  smile  of  satisfaction,  his  hand 
pointing  slightly  upwards  to  the  blank  wall  before 
us.  The  blank  wall !  Of  any  picture,  there  or 
elsewhere  in  the  room,  there  was  no  sign.  I  turned 
to  him  and  then  from  him,  and  I  felt  very  sick  at 
heart.  The  poor  old  fellow  was  —  must  be  — 
mad.  I  gazed  blankly  at  the  blank  wall.  "  By 
Van  Dyck  ?  "  1  repeated  mechanically. 

"  Yes,  sir,  by  Van  Dyck  ?  "  he  replied,  in  the 
most  matter-of-fact  tone  imaginable.  "  So,  too, 
is  this  one ;  "  he  moved  as  he  spoke  a  few  feet  to 
his  left.  "  The  second  peer's  first  wife  in  the 
costume  of  a  lady-in-waiting.  This  portrait  and 
the  last  are  in  as  good  a  state  of  preservation  as  on 
the  day  they  were  painted." 

Oh,  certainly  mad  !  And  yet  so  graphic  was 
his  manner,  so  crisp  and  realistic  were  his  words, 
that  I  rubbed  my  eyes ;  and  looked  and  looked 
again,  and  almost  fancied  that  Lord  Walter  and 
Anne,  his  wife,  grew  into  shape  before  me  on  the 
wall.  Almost,  but  not  quite ;  and  it  was  with  a 
79 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

heart  full  of  wondering  pity  that  I  accompanied  the 
old  man,  in  whose  manner  there  was  no  trace  of 
wildness  or  excitement,  round  the  walls  ;  visiting 
in  turn  the  Cuyp  which  my  lord  bought  in  Holland, 
the  Rubens,  the  four  Lawrences,  and  the  Philips 
—  a  very  Barmecide  feast  of  art.  I  could  not 
doubt  that  the  old  man  saw  the  pictures.  But  I 
saw  only  bare  walls. 

"Now  I  think  you  have  seen  them,  family  por- 
traits and  all,"  he  concluded,  as  we  came  to  the 
doorway  again ;  stating  the  fact,  which  was  no 
fact,  with  complacent  pride.  "They  are  fine 
pictures,  sir.  They,  at  least,  are  left,  although 
the  house  is  not  what  it  was." 

"  Very  fine  pictures,"  I  remarked.  I  was  minded 
to  learn  if  he  were  sane  on  other  points.  "  Lord 
Wetherby,"  I  said,  "  I  should  suppose  that  he  is 
not  in  London  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know  sir,  one  way  or  the  other," 
the  servant  answered  with  a  new  air  of  reserve. 
"This  is  not  his  lordship's  house.  Mrs.  Wigram, 
my  late  lord's  daughter-in-law,  lives  here." 

"  But  this  is  the  Wetherbys'  town  house,"  I 
persisted.  •  I  knew  so  much. 

"  It  was  my  late  lord's  house.  At  his  son's 
marriage  it  was  settled  upon  Mrs.  Wigram, 
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The  Invisible  Portraits 

and  little  enough  besides,  God  knows ! "  he  ex- 
claimed querulously.  "  It  was  Mr.  Alfred's  wish 
that  some  land  should  be  settled  upon  his  wife, 
but  there  was  none  out  of  the  entail,  and  my  lord, 
who  did  not  like  the  match,  though  he  lived  to  be 
fond  enough  of  the  mistress  afterwards,  said, c  Settle 
the  house  in  town  !  '  in  a  bitter  kind  of  joke  like. 
So  the  house  was  settled,  and  five  hundred  pounds  a 
year.  Mr.  Alfred  died  abroad,  as  you  may  know, 
sir,  and  my  lord  was  not  long  in  following  him. 

He  was  closing  the  shutters  of  one  window 
after  another  as  he  spoke.  The  room  had  sunk 
into  deep  gloom.  I  could  imagine  now  that  the 
pictures  were  really  where  he  fancied  them. 
"And  Lord  Wetherby,  the  late  peer,"  I  asked, 
after  a  pause,  "  did  he  leave  his  daughter-in-law 
nothing  ?  " 

"  My  lord  died  suddenly,  leaving  no  will,"  he 
replied  sadly.  "That  is  how  it  all  is.  And  the 
present  peer,  who  was  only  a  second  cousin  — 
well,  I  say  nothing  about  him."  A  reticence 
which  was  well  calculated  to  consign  his  lordship 
to  the  lowest  deep. 

"  He  did  not  help  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Devil  a  bit,  begging  your  pardon,  sir.  But 
there  !  it  is  not  my  place  to  talk  of  these  things. 
6  81 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

I  doubt  I  have  wearied  you  with  talk  about  the 
family.  It  is  not  my  way,"  he  added,  as  if  won- 
dering at  himself,  "  only  something  in  what  you 
said  seemed  to  touch  a  chord  like." 

By  this  time  we  were  outside  the  room,  stand- 
ing at  the  inner  end  of  the  hall,  while  he  fumbled 
with  the  lock  of  the  door.  Short  passages  ending 
in  swing  doors  ran  out  right  and  left  from  this 
point,  and  through  one  of  these  a  tidy,  middle- 
aged  woman  wearing  an  apron  suddenly  emerged. 
At  sight  of  me  she  looked  greatly  astonished. 
"  I  have  been  showing  the  gentleman  the  pic- 
tures," said  my  guide,  who  was  still  occupied 
with  the  door. 

A  quick  flash  of  pain  altered  and  hardened  the 
woman's  face.  "I  have  been  very  much  inter- 
ested, madam,"  I  said  softly. 

Her  gaze  left  me  to  dwell  upon  the  old  man 
with  infinite  affection.  "  John  had  no  right  to 
bring  you  in,  sir,"  she  said  primly.  "  I  have 
never  known  him  do  such  a  thing  before,  and 
—  Lord  a  mercy !  there  is  the  mistress's  knock. 
Go,  John,  and  let  her  in;  and  this  gentleman," 
with  an  inquisitive  look -at  me,  "will  not  mind  step- 
ping a  bit  aside,  while  her  ladyship  goes  upstairs." 

u  Certainly   not,"    I   answered.      I    hastened   to 

S2 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

draw  back  into  one  of  the  side  passages,  into  the 
darkest  corner  of  it,  and  there  stood  leaning  against 
the  cool  panels,  my  hat  in  my  hand. 

In  the  short  pause  which  ensued  before  John 
opened  the  door  she  whispered  to  me,  "You  have 
not  told  him,  sir  ?  " 

"  About  the  pictures  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.      He  is  blind,  you  see." 

"  Blind  ?  "   I  exclaimed. 

"  Yes,  sir,  this  year  and  more ;  and  when  the 
pictures  were  taken  away  —  by  the  present  earl  — 
that  he  had  known  all  his  life,  and  been  so  proud 
to  show  to  people  just  the  same  as  if  they  had  been 
his  own,  why,  it  seemed  a  shame  to  tell  him.  I 
have  never  had  the  heart  to  do  it,  and  he  thinks 
they  are  there  to  this  day." 

Blind!  I  had  never  thought  of  that;  and  while 
I  was  grasping  the  idea  now,  and  fitting  it  to  the 
facts,  a  light  footstep  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  a 
woman's  voice  on  the  stairs ;  such  a  voice  and 
such  a  footstep  that,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  a  man,  if 
nothing  else  were  left  to  him,  might  find  home  in 
them  alone.  "  Your  mistress,"  I  said  presently, 
when  the  sounds  had  died  away  upon  the  floor 
above,  "has  a  sweet  voice;  but  has  not  something 
annoved  her  ? '' 

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The  Invisible  Portraits 

"  Well,  I  never  should  have  thought  that  you 
would  have  noticed  that !  "  exclaimed  the  house- 
keeper, who  was,  I  dare  say,  many  other  things 
besides  housekeeper.  "  You  have  a  sharp  ear, 
sir;  that  I  will  say.  Yes,  there  is  a  something 
has  gone  wrong ;  but  to  think  that  an  American 
gentleman  should  have  noticed  it !  " 

"  I  am  not  an  American,"  I  said,  perhaps 
testily. 

"  Oh,  indeed,  sir !  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  sure. 
It  was  just  your  way  of  speaking  made  me  think 
it,"  she  replied ;  and  then  there  came  a  second 
louder  rap  at  the  door  as  John,  who  had  gone 
upstairs  with  his  mistress,  came  down  in  a  leisurely 
fashion. 

"That  is  Lord  Wetherby,  drat  him!  "  he  said, 
on  his  wife  calling  to  him  in  a  low  voice.  He 
was  ignorant,  I  think,  of  my  presence.  "  He 
is  to  be  shown  into  the  library,  and  the  mistress 
will  see  him  there  in  five  minutes ;  and  you  are 
to  go  to  her  room.  Oh,  rap  away!"  he  added, 
turning  towards  the  door,  and  shaking  his  fist  at 
it.  "  There  is  many  a  better  man  than  you  has 
waited  longer  at  that  door." 

"  Hush,  John.  Do  you  not  see  the  gentle- 
man ? "  interposed  his  wife,  with  the  simplicity 
84 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

of  habit.  "  He  will  show  you  out,"  she  added 
rapidly  to  me,  "  as  soon  as  his  lordship  has 
gone  in,  if  you  do  not  mind  waiting  another 
minute." 

"Not  at  all,"  I  said,  drawing  back  into  the 
corner  as  they  went  on  their  errands ;  but  though 
I  said,  u  Not  at  all,"  mine  was  an  odd  position. 
The  way  in  which  I  had  come  into  the  house, 
and  my  present  situation  in  a  kind  of  hiding,  would 
have  made  most  men  only  anxious  to  extricate 
themselves.  But  I,  while  listening  to  John  par- 
leying with  some  one  at  the  door,  conceived  a 
strange  desire,  or  a  desire  which  would  have  been 
strange  in  any  other  man,  to  see  this  thing  to  the 
end  —  conceived  it  and  acted  upon  it. 

The  library  ?  That  was  the  room  on  the  right 
of  the  hall,  opposite  to  Mrs.  Wigram's  sitting- 
room.  Probably,  nay  I  was  certain,  it  had  another 
door  opening  on  the  passage  in  which  I  stood.  It 
would  cost  me  but  a  step  or  two  to  confirm  my 
opinion.  When  John  ushered  in  the  visitor  by 
one  door  I  had  already,  by  way  of  the  other,  en- 
sconced myself  behind  a  screen,  that  I  seemed  to 
know  would  face  it.  I  was  going  to  listen.  Per- 
haps I  had  my  reasons.  Perhaps  —  but  there, 
what  matter  ?  I,  as  a  fact,  listened. 
85 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

The  room  was  spacious,  but  sombre,  wainscoted 
and  vaulted  with  oak.  Its  only  visible  occupant 
was  a  thin,  dark  man  of  middle  size,  with  a  nar- 
row face,  and  a  stubborn  feather  of  black  hair 
rising  above  his  forehead  ;  a  man  of  Welsh  type. 
He  was  standing  with  his  back  to  the  light,  a  roll 
of  papers  in  one  hand.  The  fingers  of  the  other, 
drumming  upon  the  table,  betrayed  that  he  was 
both  out  of  temper  and  ill  at  ease.  While  I  was 
still  scanning  him  stealthily  —  I  had  never  seen 
him  before  —  the  door  was  opened,  and  Mrs. 
Wigram  came  in.  I  sank  back  behind  the  screen. 
I  think  some  words  passed,  some  greeting  of  the 
most  formal,  but  though  the  room  was  still,  I 
failed  to  hear  it,  and  when  I  recovered  myself  he 
was  speaking. 

"  I  am  here  at  your  wish,  Mrs.  Wigram,  and 
your  service,  too,"  he  was  saying,  with  an  effort 
at  gallantry  which  sat  very  ill  upon  him, "  although 
I  think  it  would  have  been  better  if  we  had  left  the 
matter  to  our  solicitors." 

"Indeed." 

u  Yes.  I  fancied  you  were  aware  of  my 
opinion." 

"  I  was ;  and  I  perfectly  understand,  Lord 
Wetherby,  your  preference  for  that  course,"  she 
86 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

replied,  with  sarcastic  coldness,  which  did  not  hide 
her  dislike  for  him.  "You  naturally  shrink  from 
telling  me  your  terms  face  to  face." 

"Now,  Mrs.  Wigram  !  Now,  Mrs.  Wigram  ! 
Is  not  this  a  tone  to  be  deprecated  ?  "  he  answered, 
lifting  his  hands.  "  I  come  to  you  as  a  man  of 
business  upon  business." 

"  Business  !  Does  that  mean  wringing  advan- 
tage from  my  weakness  ?  "  she  retorted. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  I  do  deprecate 
this  tone,"  he  repeated.  "  I  come  in  plain  Eng- 
lish to  make  you  an  offer ;  one  which  you  can 
accept  or  refuse  as  you  please.  I  offer  you  five 
hundred  a  year  for  this  house.  It  is  immensely 
too  large  for  your  needs,  and  too  expensive  for 
your  income,  and  yet  you  have  in  strictness  no 
power  to  let  it.  Very  well,  I,  who  can  release  you 
from  that  restriction,  offer  you  five  hundred  a  year 
for  the  house.  What  can  be  more  fair?  " 

"  Fair?  In  plain  English,  Lord  Wetherby,  you 
are  the  only  possible  purchaser,  and  you  fix  the 
price.  Is  that  fair  ?  The  house  would  let  easily 
for  twelve  hundred." 

"  Possibly,"  he  retorted,  "if  it  were  in  the  open 
market.  But  it  is  not." 

"  No,"  she  answered  rapidly.  "  And  you,  hav- 
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The  Invisible  Portraits 

ing  the  forty  thousand  a  year  which,  had  my  hus- 
band lived,  would  have  been  his  and  mine  j  you 
who,  a  poor  man,  have  stepped  into  this  inheritance 
—  you  offer  me  five  hundred  for  the  family  house  ! 
For  shame,  my  lord  !  for  shame  !  " 

"  We  are  not  acting  a  play,"  he  said  doggedly, 
showing  that  her  words  had  stung  him  in  some 
degree.  "The  law  is  the  law.  I  ask  for  nothing 
but  my  rights,  and  one  of  those  I  am  willing  to 
waive  in  your  favor.  You  have  my  offer." 

"  And  if  I  refuse  it  ?  If  I  let  the  house  ?  You 
will  not  dare  to  enforce  the  restriction." 

"Try  me,"  he  rejoined,  again  drumming  with 
his  fingers  upon  the  table.  "  Try  me,  and  you 
will  see." 

"  If  my  husband  had  lived " 

"  But  he  did  not  live,"  he  broke  in,  losing  pa- 
tience, "  and  that  makes  all  the  difference.  Now, 
for  Heaven's  sake,  Mrs.  Wigram,  do  not  make  a 
scene !  Do  you  accept  my  offer  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  had  seemed  about  to  break 
down,  but  her  pride  coming  to  the  rescue,  she  re-- 
covered herself  with  wonderful  quickness. 

"  I  have  no  choice,"  she  said  with  dignity. 

"  I  am  glad  you  accept,"  he  answered,  so  much 
relieved  that  he  gave  way  to  an  absurd  burst  of  gen- 
88 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

erosity.  u  Come  !  "  he  cried,  "  we  will  say  guineas 
instead  of  pounds,  and  have  done  with  it  !  " 

She  looked  at  him  in  wonder.  "  No,  Lord 
Wetherby,"  she  said,  "  I  accepted  your  terms.  I 
prefer  to  keep  to  them.  You  said  that  you  would 
bring  the  necessary  papers  with  you.  If  you  have 
done  so  I  will  sign  them  now,  and  my  servants 
can  witness  them." 

"  I  have  the  draft  and  the  lawyer's  clerk  is  no 
doubt  in  the  house,"  he  answered.  "  I  left  direc- 
tions for  him  to  be  here  at  eleven." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  is  in  the  house,"  the  lady 
answered.  "  I  should  know  if  he  were  here." 

"  Not  here  !  "  he  cried  angrily.  u  Why  not,  I 
wonder  !  But  I  have  the  skeleton  lease  ;  it  is  very 
short,  and  to  save  delay  I  will  fill  in  the  particu- 
lars, names,  and  so  forth  myself,  if  you  will  per- 
mit me  to  do  so.  It  will  not  take  me  twenty 
minutes." 

"  As  you  please.  You  will  find  a  pen  and  ink 
on  the  table.  If  you  will  kindly  ring  the  bell 
when  you  are  ready,  I  will  come  and  bring  the 
servants." 

"  Thank  you.  You  are  very  good,"  he  said 
smoothly  -,  adding,  when  she  had  left  the  room, 
"  and  the  devil  take  your  impudence,  madam  !  As 
89 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

for  your  cursed  pride  —  well,  it  has  saved  me 
twenty-five  pounds  a  year,  and  so  you  are  wel- 
come to  it.  I  was  a  fool  to  make  the  offer." 
And  with  that,  now  grumbling  at  the  absence  of 
the  lawyer's  clerk,  and  now  congratulating  him- 
self on  the  saving  of  a  lawyer's  fee,  my  lord  sat 
down  to  his  task. 

A  hansom  cab  on  its  way  to  the  East  India 
Club  rattled  through  the  square,  and  under  cover 
of  the  noise  I  stole  out  from  behind  the  screen, 
and  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  looking  down 
at  the  unconscious  worker.  If  for  a  minute  I  felt 
strongly  the  desire  to  raise  my  hand  and  give  my 
lordship  such  a  surprise  as  he  had  never  in  his  life 
experienced,  any  other  man  might  have  felt  the 
same  ;  and  as  it  was  I  put  it  away  and  only  looked 
quietly  about  me.  Some  rays  of  sunshine  pierc- 
ing the  corner  pane  of  a  dulled  window  fell  on  and 
glorified  the  Wetherby  coat-of-arms  blazoned  over 
the  wide  fireplace,  and  so  created  the  one  bright 
spot  in  the  bare,  dismantled  room,  which  had  once, 
unless  the  tiers  of  empty  shelves  and  the  yet  linger- 
ing odor  of  Russia  lied,  been  lined  from  floor  to 
ceiling  with  books.  My  lord  had  taken  the  fur- 
niture ;  my  lord  had  taken  the  books  ;  my  lord 
had  taken  —  nothing  but  his  rights. 
90 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

Retreating  softly  to  the  door  by  which  I  had 
entered,  and  rattling  the  handle,  I  advanced  afresh 
into  the  room.  "Will  your  lordship  allow  me?  " 
I  said,  after  I  had  in  vain  coughed  twice  to  gain 
his  attention. 

He  turned  hastily  and  looked  at  me  with  a  face 
full  of  suspicion.  Some  surprise  on  finding  an- 
other person  in  the  room  and  close  to  him  was 
natural ;  but  possibly  also  there  was  something  in 
the  atmosphere  of  that  house  which  threw  his 
nerves  off  their  balance.  "  Who  are  you  ?  "  he 
cried  in  a  tone  which  matched  his  face. 

"  You  left  orders,  my  lord,"  I  explained,  "  with 
Messrs.  Duggan  and  Poole  that  a  clerk  should 
attend  here  at  eleven.  I  very  much  regret  that 
some  delay  has  unavoidably  been  caused." 

"  Oh,  you  are  the  clerk  !  "  he  replied  ungra- 
ciously. "  You  do  not  look  much  like  a  lawyer's 
clerk." 

Involuntarily  I  glanced  aside,  and  saw  in  a 
mirror  the  reflection  of  a  tall  man  with  a  thick 
beard  and  moustaches,  gray  eyes,  and  an  ugly  scar 
seaming  the  face  from  nose  to  ear.  "Yet  I  hope 
to  give  you  full  satisfaction,  my  lord,"  I  murmured, 
dropping  my  eyes.  "  It  was  understood  that  you 
needed  a  confidential  clerk." 
91 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

"  Well,  well,  sir,  to  your  work  !  "  he  replied 
irritably.  "  Better  late  than  never  ;  and  after  all 
it  may  be  preferable  for  you  to  be  here  and  see  it 
duly  executed.  Only  you  will  not  forget,"  he 
continued  hastily,  with  a  glance  at  the  papers, 
"that  I  have  myself  copied  four — well,  three  — 
three  full  folios,  sir,  for  which  an  allowance  must 
be  made.  But  there !  Get  on  with  your  work. 
The  handwriting  will  speak  for  itself." 

I  obeyed,  and  wrote  on  steadily,  while  the  earl 
walked  up  and  down  the  room,  or  stood  at  a  win- 
dow. Upstairs  sat  Mrs.  Wigram,  schooling  her- 
self, I  dare  swear,  to  take  this  one  favor  that  was 
no  favor  from  the  man  who  had  dealt  out  to  her 
such  hard  measure.  Outside  a  casual  passer 
through  the  square  glanced  up  at  the  great  house, 
and  seeing  the  bent  head  of  the  secretary  and  the 
figure  of  his  companion  moving  to  and  fro,  saw, 
as  he  thought,  nothing  unusual ;  nor  had  any  pre- 
sentiment—  how  should  he?  —  of  the  strange 
scene  which  the  room  with  the  dingy  windows 
was  about  to  witness. 

I   had   been   writing    for    perhaps  five   minutes 
when  Lord   Wetherby  stopped  in  his  passage  be- 
hind me  and  looked  over  my  shoulder.     With  a 
jerk  his  eye-glasses  fell,  touching  my  shoulder. 
92 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

u  Bless  my  soul !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  I  have  seen 
your  handwriting  somewhere  ;  and  lately  too. 
Where  could  it  have  been  ?  " 

"  Probably  among  the  family  papers,  my  lord," 
I  answered.  "  I  have  several  times  been  engaged 
in  the  family  business  in  the  time  of  the  late  Lord 
Wetherby." 

"Indeed."  There  was  both  curiosity  and  sus- 
picion in  his  utterance  of  the  word.  "You  knew 
him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord.  I  have  written  for  him  in 
this  very  room,  and  he  has  walked  up  and  down, 
and  dictated  to  me,  as  you  might  be  doing  now,"  I 
explained. 

His  lordship  stopped  his  pacing  to  and  fro,  and 
retreated  to  the  window  on  the  instant.  But  I 
could  see  that  he  was  interested,  and  I  was  not 
surprised  when  he  continued  with  transparent 
carelessness.  "  A  strange  coincidence.  And 
may  I  ask  what  it  was  upon  which  you  were 
engaged  ?  " 

"  At  that  time  ?  "  I  answered,  looking  him  full 
in  the  face.  "  It  was  a  will,  my  lord." 

He  started  and  frowned,  and  abruptly  resumed 
his  walk  up  and  down.  But  I  saw  that  he  had  a 
better  conscience  than  I  had  given  him  the  credit 
93 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

of  possessing.  My  shot  had  not  struck  fairly 
where  I  had  looked  to  place  it ;  and  finding  this 
was  so,  I  turned  the  thing  over  afresh,  while  I 
pursued  my  copying.  When  I  had  finished,  I 
asked  him  —  I  think  he  was  busy  at  the  time 
cursing  the  absence  of  tact  in  the  lower  orders  — 
if  he  would  go  through  the  instrument ;  and  he 
took  my  seat. 

Where  I  stood  behind  him,  I  was  not  far  from 
the  fireplace.  While  he  muttered  to  himself  the 
legal  jargon  in  which  he  was  as  well  versed 
as  a  lawyer  bred  in  an  office,  I  moved  to  it; 
and,  neither  missed  nor  suspected,  stood  look- 
ing from  his  bent  figure  to  the  blazoned  shield, 
which  formed  part  of  the  mantelpiece.  If  I 
wavered,  my  hesitation  lasted  but  a  few  seconds. 
Then,  raising  my  voice,  I  called  sharply,  "  My 
lord,  there  used  to  be  here  —  " 

He  turned  swiftly,  and  saw  where  I  was.  "  What 
the  deuce  are  you  doing  there,  sir  ?  "  he  cried  in 
boundless  astonishment,  rising  to  his  feet  and 
coming  towards  me,  the  pen  in  his  hand  and  his 
face  aflame  with  anger.  "You  forget  —  " 

"A  safe — a  concealed  safe  for  papers,"  I  con- 
tinued, cutting  him  short  in  my  turn.     "  I   have 
seen  the  late  Lord  Wetherby  place  papers  in  it  more 
94 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

than  once.     The  spring  worked  from  here.      You 
touch  this  knob." 

"  Leave  it  alone,  sir !  "  cried  the  peer  furiously. 

He  spoke  too  late.  The  shield  had  swung 
gently  outwards  on  a  hinge,  door-fashion,  and 
where  it  had  been,  gaped  a  small  open  safe  lined 
with  cement.  The  rays  of'  sunshine,  that  a  few 
minutes  before  had  picked  out  so  brightly  the 
gaudy  quarterings,  now  fell  on  a  large  envelope 
which  lay  apart  on  a  shelf.  It  was  as  clean  as  if 
it  had  been  put  there  that  morning.  No  doubt 
the  safe  was  air-tight.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  it. 
"  My  lord  !  "  I  cried,  turning  to  look  at  him  with 
ill-concealed  exultation,  "  here  is  a  paper  —  I 
think,  a  will !  " 

A  moment  before  the  veins  of  his  forehead  had 
been  swollen,  his  face  dark  with  the  rush  of  blood. 
His  anger  died  down,  at  sight  of  the  packet, 
with  strange  abruptness.  He  regained  his  self- 
control,  and  a  moment  saw  him  pale  and  calm,  all 
show  of  resentment  confined  to  a  wicked  gleam  in 
his  eye.  "  A  will  !  "  he  repeated,  with  a  certain 
kind  of  dignity,  though  the  hand  he  stretched  out 
to  take  the  envelope  shook.  "  Indeed,  then  it  is 
my  place  to  examine  it.  I  am  the  heir-at-law,  and 
I  am  within  my  rights,  sir." 
95 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

I  feared  that  he  was  going  to  put  the  parcel  into 
his  pocket  and  dismiss  me,  and  I  was  considering 
what  course  I  should  take  in  that  event,  when 
instead  he  carried  the  envelope  to  the  table  by  the 
window  and  tore  off  the  cover  without  ceremony. 
"It  is  not  in  your  handwriting?"  were  his  first 
words ;  and  he  looked  at  me  with  a  distrust  that 
was  almost  superstitious.  No  doubt  my  sudden 
entrance,  my  ominous  talk,  and  my  discovery 
seemed  to  him  to  savor  of  the  devil. 

"  No,"  I  replied  unmoved.  "  I  told  your  lord- 
ship that  I  had  written  a  will  at  the  late  Lord 
Wetherby's  dictation.  I  did  not  say  —  for  how 
could  I  know  ?  —  that  it  was  this  one." 

"  Ah  !  "  He  hastily  smoothed  the  sheets,  and 
ran  his  eyes  over  their  contents.  When  he  reached 
the  last  page  there  was  a  dark  scowl  on  his  face, 
and  he  stood  a  while  staring  at  the  signatures;  not 
now  reading,  I  think,  but  collecting  his  thoughts. 
"  You  know  the  provisions  of  this  ?  "  he  presently 
burst  forth  with  violence,  dashing  the  back  of  his 
hand  against  the  paper.  "  I  say,  sir,  you  know 
the  provisions  of  this?" 

"I  do-not,  my  lord,"  I  answered.     Nor  did  I. 

"  The  unjust  provisions  of  this  will,"  he  re- 
peated, passing  over  my  negative  as  if  it  had  not 
96 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

been  uttered.  "  Fifty  thousand  pounds  to  a 
woman  who  had  not  a  penny  when  she  married 
his  son  !  Aye,  and  the  interest  on  another  hun- 
dred thousand  for  her  life  !  Why,  it  is  a  prodig- 
ious income,  an  abnormal  income —  for  a  woman  I 
And  out  of  whose  pocket  is  it  to  come  ?  Out  of 
mine,  every  stiver  of  it !  It  is  monstrous  !  I  say 
it  is  !  How  am  I  to  keep  up  the  title  on  the  in- 
come left  to  me,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

I  marvelled.  I  remembered  how  rich  he  was. 
I  could  not  refrain  from  suggesting  that  he  had 
still  remaining  all  the  real  property.  "  And,"  I 
added,  "  I  understood,  my  lord,  that  the  testator's 
personalty  was  sworn  under  four  hundred  thou- 
sand pounds." 

"  You  talk  nonsense  !  "  he  snarled.  "  Look  at 
the  legacies  !  Five  thousand  here,  and  a  thousand 
there,  and  hundreds  like  berries  on  a  bush  !  It  is 
a  fortune,  a  decent  fortune,  clean  frittered  away  ! 
A  barren  title  is  all  that  will  be  left  to  me  !  " 

What  was  he  going  to  do  ?  His  face  was 
gloomy,  his  hands  were  twitching.  "  Who  are 
the  witnesses,  my  lord  ? "  I  asked  in  a  low 
voice. 

So  low — for  under  certain  conditions  a  tone 
conveys  much,  very  much  —  that  he  shot  a  stealthy 
7  97 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

glance  towards  the  door  before  he  answered,  "  John 
Williams." 

"  Blind,"  I  replied  in  the  same  low  tone. 

"  William  Williams." 

"  He  is  dead.  He  was  Mr.  Alfred's  valet.  I 
remember  reading  in  the  newspaper  that  he  was 
with  his  master,  and  was  killed  by  the  Indians  at 
the  same  time." 

"True.  I  remember  that  that  was  the  case,"  he 
answered  huskily.  "  And  the  handwriting  is  Lord 
Wetherby's."  I  assented.  Then  for  fully  a  min- 
ute we  were  silent,  while  he  bent  over  the  will, 
and  I  stood  behind  him  looking  down  at  him  with 
thoughts  in  my  mind  which  he  could  as  little 
fathom  as  could  the  senseless  wood  upon  which  I 
leaned.  Yet  I  too  mistook  him.  I  thought  him, 
to  be  plain,  a  scoundrel ;  and  —  well,  so  he  was 
—  but  a  mean  one.  "  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  he 
muttered  at  length,  speaking  rather  to  himself  than 
to  me. 

I  answered  softly,  "  I  am  a  poor  man,  my  lord," 
while  inwardly  I  was  quoting  "  quern  Deus  vult 
perdere." 

My    words    startled    him.      He    answered    hur- 
riedly, "  Just  so  !  just    so  !     So  shall  I  be  when 
this  cursed  paper  takes  effect.     A  very  poor  man  ! 
98 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

4 

A  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  gone  at  a  blow ! 
But  there,  she  shall  have  it !  She  shall  have  every 
penny  of  it ;  only,"  he  concluded  slowly,  "  I  do 
not  see  what  difference  one  more  day  will  make." 

I  followed  his  downcast  eyes,  which  moved 
from  the  will  before  him  to  the  agreement  for  the 
lease  of  the  house ;  and  I  did  see  what  difference 
a  day  would  make.  I  saw  and  understood  and 
wondered.  He  had  not  the  courage  to  suppress 
the  will  ;  but  if  he  could  gain  a  slight  advantage 
by  withholding  it  for  a  few  hours,  he  had  the  mind 
to  do  that.  Mrs.  Wigram,  a  rich  woman,  would 
no  longer  let  the  house  ;  she  would  be  under  no 
compulsion  to  do  so  ;  and  my  lord  would  lose  a 
cheap  residence  as  well  as  his  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  pounds.  To  the  latter  loss  he  could  re- 
sign himself  with  a  sigh  ;  but  he  could  not  bear  to 
forego  the  petty  gain  for  which  he  had  schemed. 
"  I  think  I  understand,  my  lord,"  I  replied. 

"  Of  course,"  he  resumed  nervously,  "  you 
must  be  rewarded  for  making  this  discovery.  I 
will  see  that  it  is  so.  You  may  depend  upon  me. 
I  will  mention  the  case  to  Mrs.  Wigram,  and  — 
and,  in  fact,  my  friend,  you  may  depend  upon 
me." 

"  That  will  not  do,"  I  said  firmly.  "  If  that  be 
99 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

all,  I  had  better  go  to  Mrs.  Wigram  at  once,  and 
claim  my  reward  a  day  earlier." 

He  grew  very  red  in  the  face  at  receiving  this 
check.  "  You  will  not  in  that  event  get  my  good 
word,"  he  said. 

"  Which  has  no  weight  with  the  lady,"  I  an- 
swered politely  but  plainly. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me  ?  "  his  lordship 
cried.  "You  are  an  impertinent  fellow!  But 
there!  How  much  do  you  want?" 

"  A  hundred  pounds." 

"  A  hundred  pounds  for  a  mere  day's  delay, 
which  will  do  no  one  any  harm  !  " 

"  Except  Mrs.  Wigram,"  I  retorted  dryly. 
"Come,  Lord  Wetherby,  this  lease  is  worth  a 
thousand  a  year  to  you.  Mrs.  Wigram,  as  you 
well  know,  will  not  voluntarily  let  the  house  to  you. 
If  you  would  have  Wetherby  House  you  must 
pay  me.  That  is  the  long  and  the  short  of  it." 

"  You  are  an  impertinent  fellow  !  "  he  repeated. 

"So  you  have  said  before,  my  lord." 

I  expected  him  to  burst  into  a  furious  passion, 
but  I  suppose  there  was  a  something  of  power  in 
my  tone,  beyond  the  mere  defiance  which  the 
words  expressed  ;  for,  instead  of  doing  so,  he  eyed 
me  with  a  thoughtful,  malevolent  gaze,  and  paused 
100 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

to  consider.  "  You  are  at  Poole  and  Duggan's," 
he  said  slowly.  "  How  was  it  that  they  did  not 
search  this  cupboard,  with  which  you  were 
acquainted  ?  " 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  "  I  have  not  been  in 
the  house  since  Lord  Wetherby  died,"  I  said. 
"  My  employers  did  not  consult  me  when  the 
papers  he  left  were  examined." 

"  You  are  not  a  member  of  the  firm  ?  " 

"  No,  I  am  not,"  I  answered.  I  was  thinking 
that,  so  far  as  I  knew  those  respectable  gentlemen, 
no  one  of  them  would  have  helped  my  lord  in  this 
for  ten  times  a  hundred  pounds.  My  lord  ! 
Faugh 

He  seemed  satisfied,  and  taking  out  a  note-case 
laid  on  the  table  a  little  pile  of  notes.  "  There  is 
your  money,"  he  said,  counting  them  over  with 
reluctant  fingers.  "  Be  good  enough  to  put  the 
will  and  envelope  back  into  the  cupboard.  To- 
morrow you  will  oblige  me  by  rediscovering  it  — 
you  can  manage  that,  no  doubt  —  and  giving  in- 
formation at  once  to  Messrs.  Duggan  and  Poole, 
or  Mrs.  Wigram,  as  you  please.  Now,"  he  con- 
tinued, when  I  had  obeyed  him,  "will  you  be  good 
enough  to  ask  the  servants  to  tell  Mrs.  Wigram 
that  I  am  waiting  ?  " 

101 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

There  was  a  slight  noise  behind  us.  "  I  am 
here,"  said  some  one.  I  am  sure  that  we  both 
jumped  at  the  sound,  for  though  I  did  not  look 
that  way,  I  knew  that  the  voice  was  Mrs. 
Wigram's,  and  that  she  was  in  the  room.  "  I 
have  come  to  tell  you,  Lord  Wetherby,"  she  went 
on,  "  that  I  have  an  engagement  from  home  at 
twelve.  Do  1  understand,  however,  that  you  are 
ready?  If  so,  I  will  call  in  Mrs.  Williams." 

"The  papers  are  ready  for  signature,"  the  peer 
answered,  betraying  some  confusion,  "  and  I  am 
ready  to  sign.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  the  matter 
settled  as  agreed."  Then  he  turned  to  me,  where 
I  had  fallen  back,  as  seemed  becoming,  to  the  end 
of  the  room,  and  said,  "  Be  good  enough  to  ring 
the  bell  if  Mrs.  Wigram  permit  it." 

As  I  moved  to  the  fireplace  to  do  so,  I  was 
conscious  that  the  lady  was  regarding  me  with 
some  faint  surprise.  But  when  I  had  regained 
my  position  and  looked  towards  her,  she  was 
standing  near  the  window  gazing  steadily  out  into 
the  square,  an  expression  of  disdain  rendered  by 
face  and  figure.  Shall  I  confess  that  it  was  a  joy 
to  me  to  see  her  fair  head  so  high,  and  to  read 
even  in  the  outline  of  her  girlish  form  a  contempt 
which  I,  and  I  only,  knew  to  be  so  justly  based  ? 
102 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

For  myself,  I  leant  against  the  edge  of  the  screen 
by  the  door,  and  perhaps  my  hundred  pounds  lay 
heavily  on  my  heart.  As  for  him,  he  fidgeted 
with  his  papers,  although  they  were  all  in  order, 
and  was  visibly  impatient  to  get  his  bit  of  knavery 
accomplished.  Oh  !  he  was  a  worthy  man  !  And 
Welshman  ! 

"  Perhaps,"  he  presently  suggested,  for  the  sake 
of  saying  something,  "  while  your  servant  is  com- 
ing, you  will  read  the  agreement,  Mrs.  Wigram. 
It  is  very  short,  and,  as  you  know,  your  solicitors 
have  already  seen  it  in  the  draft." 

She  bowed,  and  took  the  paper  negligently. 
She  read  some  way  down  the  first  sheet  with  a 
smile,  half  careless,  half  contemptuous.  Then  I 
saw  her  stop  —  she  had  turned  her  back  to  the  win- 
dow to  obtain  more  light  —  and  dwell  on  a  particu- 
lar sentence.  I  saw — God!  I  had  forgotten  the 
handwriting  !  —  I  saw  her  gray  eyes  grow  large 
and  fear  leap  into  them  as  she  grasped  the  paper 
with  her  other  hand,  and  stepped  nearer  to  the 
peer's  side.  "  Who,"  she  cried,  "  who  wrote 
this  ?  Tell  me !  Do  you  hear  ?  Tell  me 
quickly  !  " 

He  was  nervous  on  his  own  account,  wrapt  in 
his  own  piece  of  scheming,  and  obtuse. 
103 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

"  I  wrote  it,"  he  said,  with  maddening  com- 
placency. He  put  up  his  glasses  and  glanced  at 
the  top  of  the  page  she  held  out  to  him.  "  I 
wrote  it  myself,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  it  is 
quite  right,  and  a  faithful  copy.  You  do  not 
think  —  " 

"  Think !  Think  !  no,  no !  This,  I  mean  ! 
Who  wrote  this  ?  "  she  cried,  awe  in  her  face,  and 
a  suppliant  tone,  —  strange  as  addressed  to  that 
man,  —  in  her  voice. 

He  was  confounded  by  her  vehemence,  as  well 
as  hampered  by  his  own  evil  conscience. 

"  The  clerk,  Mrs.  Wigram,  the  clerk,"  he  said 
petulantly,  still  in  his  fog  of  selfishness.  "  The 
clerk  from  Messrs.  Duggan  and  Poole's." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  "  she  cried  out  breathlessly. 
I  think  she  did  not  believe  him. 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  he  repeated  in  querulous  sur- 
prise. "  Why  here,  of  course.  Where  should  he 
be,  madam  ?  He  will  witness  my  signature." 

Would  he  ?  Signatures !  It  was  little  of  sig- 
natures I  recked  at  that  moment.  I  was  praying 
to  Heaven  that  my  folly  might  be  forgiven  me, 
and  that  my  lightly  planned  vengeance  might  not 
fall  on  my  own  head.  "Joy  does  not  kill,"  I 
was  saying  to  myself,  repeating  it  over  and  over 
104 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

again,  and  clinging  to  it  desperately.  "  Joy  does 
not  kill !  "  But  oh  !  was  it  true  in  the  face  of  that 
white-lipped  woman  ? 

"  Here !  "  She  did  not  say  more,  but  gazing 
at  me  with  great  dazed  eyes,  she  raised  her  hand, 
and  beckoned  to  me.  And  I  had  no  choice  but 
to  obey  —  to  go  nearer  to  her,  out  into  the  light. 

u  Mrs.  Wigram,"  I  said  hoarsely,  my  voice 
sounding  to  me  only  as  a  whisper,  "  I  have  news 
of  your  late  —  of  your  husband.  It  is  good 
news." 

"  Good  news  ? "  Did  she  faintly  echo  my 
words  ?  or,  as  her  face  from  which  all  color 
had  passed  peered  into  mine,  and  searched  it  in 
infinite  hope  and  infinite  fear,  did  our  two  minds 
speak  without  need  of  physical  lips  ?  "  Good 
news  ? " 

"Yes,"  I  whispered,  "  he  is  alive.  The  Indians 
did  not  —  " 

"  Alfred  !  "  Her  cry  rang  through  the  room, 
and  with  it  I  caught  her  in  my  arms  as  she  fell. 
Beard  and  long  hair,  and  scar  and  sunburn,  and 
strange  dress  —  these  which  had  deceived  others  — 
were  no  disguise  to  her  —  my  wife.  I  bore  her 
gently  to  the  couch,  and  hung  over  her  in  a  new 
paroxysm  of  fear.  "  A  doctor !  Quick !  A 
I05 


The  Invisible  Portraits 

doctor ! "  I  cried  to  Mrs.  Williams,  who  was 
already  kneeling  beside  her.  "Do  not  tell  me," 
I  added  piteously,  "  that  I  have  killed  her." 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  "  the  good  woman  answered, 
the  tears  running  down  her  face.  "  Joy  does  not 
kill !  " 

An  hour  later  this  fear  had  been  lifted  from  me, 
and  I  was  walking  up  and  down  the  library  alone 
with  my  thankfulness  j  glad  to  be  alone,  yet  more 
glad,  more  thankful  still,  when  John  came  in  with 
a  beaming  face.  "You  have  come  to  tell  me  —  " 
I  cried  eagerly,  pleased  that  the  tidings  had  come 
by  his  lips  — u  to  go  to  her?  That  she  will 
see  me  ?  " 

"  Her  ladyship  is  sitting  up,"  he  replied. 

"  And  Lord  Wetherby  ?  "  I  asked,  pausing  at 
the  door  to  put  the  question.  "  He  left  the  house 
at  once  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  lord,  Mr.  Wigram  has  been  gone 
some  time." 


1 06 


Along  the  Garonne. 


T  T  7E  ascend  the  valley  of  the  Garonne  on  our 
way  to  Pau,  which  we  intended  to  use  as 
a  base  of  operations  against  the  Pyrenees.  Our 
route,  as  originally  mapped  out,  lay  by  sea  to  Bor- 
deaux, which  is  three  days  from  Liverpool  ;  and 
thence  by  rail  to  our  destination,  a  journey  merely 
of  hours.  But  at  the  last  moment  we  determined 
to  postpone  our  stay  at  Pau,  and  instead  to  wander 
along  the  banks  of  the  Garonne  for  a  time,  famil- 
iarizing ourselves  with  the  ways  of  the  country. 
Then,  when  we  had  rubbed  off  our  insular  corners 
against  the  Great  French  Politeness,  and  perfected 
our  grasp  of  the  language  in  talk  with  the  Agenois 
villagers,  we  proposed  to  drop  gently  into  Pau, 
armed  at  all  points,  and  scarcely  distinguishable 
from  Frenchmen. 

So  we  planned  :   and   so   it  came  about  that  we 
were  free  to  enjoy  ourselves  and   look  about  us 
107 


Along  the  Garonne 

critically,  as  the  smoky  little  tender  bore  us  up  the 
wide  channel  of  the  Gironde  from  Pauillac,  where 
our  ship  bound  for  South  America  had  contempt- 
uously dropped  us,  to  Bordeaux  itself.  A  little 
below  the  city,  the  Gironde,  which  is  really  the 
estuary  of  the  Garonne  and  Dordogne,  shrinks  to 
the  Garonne  pure  and  simple,  but  under  either 
name  it  seems  equally  a  waste  of  turbid  clay-laden 
waters.  On  our  left  hand  a  bright  sun  —  the 
month  was  November  —  shone  warmly  on  a  line 
of  low  hills,  formed  of  reddish  earth,  and  broken 
by  great  marl  quarries.  Woods  climbed  about 
these,  and  here  and  there  a  village  or  a  little  town 
nestled  under  them.  On  our  right  the  bank  lay 
low,  and  was  fringed  with  willows,  the  country 
behind  it  being  flattish,  planted  as  it  seemed  to  us 
with  dead  thorn-bushes,  and  dotted  sparely  with 
modern  castellated  houses.  Nevertheless  it  was 
towards  this  modest,  almost  dreary  landscape  that 
we  gazed  ;  it  was  of  it  we  all  spoke,  and  to  it  re- 
ferred, as  we  named  names  famous  as  Austerlitz 
or  Waterloo,  names  familiar  in  our  mouths  —  and 
our  butlers'  —  as  household  words.  For  are  not 
more  people  versed  in  claret  than  in  history  r 
And  this  commonplace  landscape,  this  western 
bank  of  the  Gironde,  a  mere  peninsula  lying  be- 
108 


Along  the  Garonne 

tween  the  river  and  the  low  Atlantic  coast,  is 
called  Medoc,  and  embraces  all  the  best  known 
Bordeaux  vineyards  in  the  world.  It  seems  as 
if  a  single  parish  —  say  St.  George's,  Hanover 
Square,  for  that  is  a  big  one  —  might  hold  them 
all.  There,  see,  is  Chateau  Lafitte.  The  vine- 
yards of  St.  Estephe  and  St.  Julien  we  have  just 
passed.  Leoville  and  Latour  are  not  far  off.  And 
now  we  are  passing  the  Chateau  of  Margaux  itself, 
and  gaining  experience,  are  beginning  to  learn  that 
all  those  little  thorn-bushes  stuck  about  the  fal- 
lows, as  though  to  protect  the  ground-game  from 
poachers'  nets,  are  vines  —  vines  of  the  premier 
cru !  The  vintage  is  over.  The  grapes,  black, 
sour  things,  about  the  size  of  currants,  have  all 
been  picked.  Where  we  had  looked  to  see  the 
endless  interlacings  of  greenery,  and  swelling  clus- 
ters dropping  fatness  on  a  carpet  of  turf,  we  find 
only  reddish  fallows,  and  rows  of  dead  gooseberry 
bushes. 

But  never  mind,  even  though  this  be  but  the 
first  of  many  disillusions,  and  though  the  u  sunny 
south  "  become  hourly  a  more  humorous  catch- 
word. To-day  the  sun  is  warm,  the  breeze  is 
soft,  the  custom-house  officers  are  civil.  We  air 
—  but  with  the  caution  due  to  convalescents,  or 
109 


Along  the  Garonne 

those  of  tender  years  —  our  shaky,  tottering  French, 
and  get  English  answers.  So  we  stride  across  the 
broad  quays  of  Bordeaux,  our  hearts  before  us,  our 
luggage  behind,  and  ourselves  in  the  best  of  spirits 
and  tempers. 

Bordeaux,  as  we  saw  it,  was  a  cheerful,  busy 
city,  full  of  wide  streets  and  open  spaces  and  hand- 
some buildings ;  a  bright  clean,  airy,  city  with  little 
smoke,  an  immense  water  frontage,  and  one  very 
fine  bridge  :  a  pleasant  etherealized  Liverpool,  in 
fact.  The  white  blouses  and  blue  trousers  of  the 
workmen,  the  soldiers'  uniforms,  the  bare  heads 
of  some  women  and  the  gay  'kerchiefs,  worn  chig- 
non-wise, of  others,  gave  picturesqueness  to  the 
crowds  circling  about  the  kiosques,  and  reminded 
us,  from  time  to  time,  that  we  were  in  a  southern 
city.  Not  unnecessarily  ;  for  the  thermometer  fell 
on  the  day  after  our  arrival  to  fifty  degrees  ;  and 
rain  fell  too,  and  we  were  quick  to  discover  the 
true  cause  of  French  vivacity.  The  French  have 
no  fires  at  home.  Consequently,  when  it  is  cold 
—  and  it  often  is  very  cold,  even  as  far  South  as 
Bordeaux  —  their  only  resource  is  to  go  out,  and 
jump  about  in  such  faint  sunshine  as  they  can  find, 
and  so  make  believe  to  be  warm.  Every  one  in 
Bordeaux  seemed  to  be  doing  this  that  day. 
no 


Along  the  Garonne 

We  saw  a  number  of  churches,  but  I  have  jum- 
bled them  together  in  my  mind,  and  dare  not  dis- 
tinguish between  the  beauties  of  St.  Seurin  and  St. 
Croix,  St.  Michel  or  the  Cathedral.  Only  I  at- 
tended a  service  on  Sunday  morning,  and,  having 
heard  that  no  Frenchmen  now  went  to  church, 
noted  with  interest  that  of  a  large  congregation  one 
in  every  four  was  a  man.  But  then  Bordeaux  is 
perhaps  the  most  orthodox  city  in  France,  and 
primitive  ideas,  good  and  bad,  still  prevail  in  this 
southwestern  province,  peopled  by  descendants  of 
the  Huguenots  and  Albigenses,  by  devout  Basques 
and  simple  Navarrese.  And  two  things  also  in 
Bordeaux  I  remember  —  the  semi-circular  remains 
of  a  Roman  amphitheatre,  which  no  one  visiting 
Bordeaux  should  omit  to  see;  and,  secondly,  a 
lofty,  detached  spire  of  singular  lightness  and 
grace.  It  is  called  the  Peyberland,  and  was  built 
by  Pierre  Berland,  who  must  have  been  an  English 
subject. 

His  name  strikes  the  vein  of  thought  which  was 
uppermost  in  my  mind  at  Bordeaux.  I  found  it 
impossible  to  forget  that  it  had  been  for  three  cen- 
turies a  half  English  city,  and  the  capital  of  a  half 
English  province,  ruled  by  an  English  king;  or 
that  up  the  wide  Gironde,  between  the  marly 
in 


Along  the  Garonne 

banks,  Edward  the  Black  Prince  must  many  a  time 
have  sailed  in  state.  Sir  John  Chandos  and  Sir 
Walter  Manny,  and  many  another  English  worthy, 
knew  these  streets  as  well  as  they  knew  Eastcheap 
or  Aldgate.  John  of  Gaunt  and  Talbot  of 
Shrewsbury  dwelt  here,  as  much  at  home  and  at 
their  ease  as  in  York  or  Leicester.  It  is  impos- 
sible not  to  wonder  at  those  old  Englishmen  ;  not 
to  think  of  them  with  pride,  as  we  remember  how 
firmly,  the  roving  blood  of  Dane  and  Norman 
young  in  their  veins,  they  grasped  this  prize  ;  how 
long  they  clung  to  it,  how  boldly  they  flaunted  the 
French  lilies  in  the  eyes  of  France ;  how  cheer- 
fully they  crowded  year  by  year  to  cross  the  bay  in 
open  boats !  And  then  what  cosmopolitans  they 
were,  with  their  manors  in  Devon  and  Aquitane, 
their  houses  in  London  and  Bordeaux  ;  with  per- 
haps a  snug  little  box  at  Calais,  and  a  farm  or  two 
in  Maine.  How  trippingly  French  and  Provencal, 
and  the  rougher  English,  passed  over  their  tongues. 
They  founded  no  empire  —  on  the  contrary  they 
lost  one.  But  they  were  the  immediate  ancestors 
of  Elizabeth's  sea-dogs,  for  all  that.  In  holding 
Guienne  through  those  three  centuries  their  strength 
was  wasted.  When  they  lost  it  (1451),  they 
turned  upon  one  another,  and  the  Wars  of  the 
112 


Along  the  Garonne 

Roses  took  up  half  a  century.  After  that  they 
needed  half-a-century's  holiday  to  recruit  them- 
selves ;  and  then  out  flashed  the  Vikings'  spirit 
again  —  this  time  to  better  purpose  —  and  under 
Drake  and  Grenville  and  Hawkins,  they,  the  men 
of  Poitiers  and  Sluys,  made  the  greater  England. 

Even  in  Bordeaux  they  have  left  some  traces 
of  their  work.  They  built  this  cathedral  which 
stands  here,  in  the  third  city  of  France.  Their 
leopards  are  not  yet  effaced  from  the  walls  of  yon- 
der castle.  Their  dogs  —  les  dogues  des  Anglais, 
our  waiter  dubbed  them,  on  seeing  us  fondle  them 
—  play  about  the  streets,  and  snifF  with  a  special 
friendliness  at  English  calves.  Indeed,  I  never 
saw  such  a  place  for  bull-dogs  —  chiefly  brindled 
ones  —  as  Bordeaux.  We  drank  a  toast  after  din- 
ner the  evening  before  we  left.  It  was,  Les  dogues 
des  Anglais  ! 

Bordeaux,  being  like  London  too  high  on  the 
river  to  get  the  sea-breeze,  has  its  Brighton  at 
Arcachon.  To  reach  the  latter  from  the  city,  a 
railway  passes  some  thirty  miles  westward  across 
a  tract  of  light,  sandy  soil,  thinly  clothed  with 
woods.  As  you  glide  through  these,  now  in  sun- 
shine, now  in  shade,  you  catch  a  glimpse  here  and 
there  of  clearings  and  wooden  shanties,  and  groups 


Along  the  Garonne 

of  peasants  leaning  on  axes.  Then,  scarcely  de- 
scending, you  find  yourself  on  the  seashore,  with 
the  Bay  of  Biscay  before  you.  Nearer,  a  basin  of 
deepest  blue,  almost  cut  off  from  the  outer  sea  by 
a  reef  of  the  dunes,  forms  a  glorified  harbor. 
Along  this  basin  runs  a  broad  beach,  backed  by  a 
row  of  magnificent  hotels  with  spacious  terraces  ; 
and  behind  these  lie  two  or  three  streets  of  rather 
paltry  shops  and  restaurants.  Having  seen  all 
this  —  the  plage,  the  hotels,  the  terraces,  the  streets 
—  you  fancy  you  have  seen  Arcachon,  and  are  in- 
clined to  be  disappointed.  But  this  is  not  Ar- 
cachon proper,  which  lies  at  the  back  of  all  this, 
and  at  the  back  even  of  that  fairy-like  Casino  that 
rises  on  the  abrupt  slope  of  the  sand-dunes  behind 
us,  and  seemed  the  rear  of  all  things.  For  on  the 
land-side  of  the  Casino  is  a  forest  of  pines  and 
larches,  wild,  far  stretching,  and  apparently  illimit- 
able :  a  forest  that  is  perpetually  running  up  one 
sand-hill  and  down  another,  as  if  it  were  trying  to 
get  a  view  of  the  sea,  and  were  not  easily  satisfied. 
And  amid  the  vivid  greens  and  dull  blues  of  the 
foliage,  glitter  here  and  there  and  everywhere  the 
daintiest  of  Swiss  chalets  or  Indian  bungalows, 
bright  boxes  of  wood  and  stucco,  colored  and 
painted,  and  fretted  and  carved  so  delicately  that 
114 


Along  the  Garonne 

one  would  infer  that  rain  never  fell  here  ;  or  else 
that  these  were  not  intended  for  out-of-door  wear. 
Mere  toys  they  seem,  set  in  smooth  lawns. 
Flowers  glow  about  them,  and  the  scent  of  the 
pines  is  everywhere,  and  everywhere  are  shady 
aisles  of  trees  hung  with  white  mosses,  and  leading 
into  the  gloom  of  the  forest.  Nature  and  luxury 
have  come  together  here  ;  the  result  is  that  soft, 
languid,  southern  beauty,  Mademoiselle  Arcachon 
—  of  the  Theatre  des  Folies  Bordelaises.  Yet  is 
her  constitution  tolerably  strong  —  thanks  to  the 
Atlantic  breezes,  though  the  sun  was  bright  on  the 
day  we  visited  her,  the  wind  was  cold  and  the  ther- 
mometer scarcely  above  forty  degrees.  This  in 
early  November. 

The  next  evening  saw  us  enter  a  very  different 
place  in  a  different  way.  For  leaving  Bordeaux 
we  reached  La  Reole  on  foot  and  at  dusk,  wel- 
comed only  by  the  fantastic  rays  of  a  few  swinging 
oil  lamps.  La  Reole  is  the  antipodes  to  Arcachon. 
It  is  a  small,  ancient  town,  which,  small  as  it  is, 
has  a  great  place  in  Froissart  and  Davila,  and  still 
frowns  bravely  down  upon  the  rich  plain  of  the 
Garonne.  It  stands  on  a  steep,  cloven  hill  that 
rises  sheer  from  the  wide,  yellow,  rush-bordered 
river  about  forty  miles  above  Bordeaux.  On  the 
"5 


Along  the  Garonne 

crest  above  the  Garonne  stands  a  castle  once  Eng- 
lish, and  in  size  and  position  not  unlike  that  at 
Chepstow.  Beside  it  are  a  church,  a  modern  cha- 
teau, and  a  place  of  modern  houses.  Upon  the 
second  crest,  and  in  the  cleft  between  the  two,  are 
huddled  together  the  steep  alleys  and  crazy  totter- 
ing houses,  all  corners  and  gables,  of  the  old 
town.  A  stream  on  which  are  several  mills  pours 
through  the  ravine,  being  overhung  by  tall,  de- 
lapidated  houses  of  three  stories,  with  as  many 
sets  of  wooden  balconies  and  outside  stairs.  One 
might  almost  step  across  the  water  from  one  bal- 
cony to  another,  so  much  do  the  houses  bulge. 
We  took  infinite  delight  in  the  old-world  quaint- 
ness  of  this  scene,  in  the  air  of  decay  that  hung 
about  all  things,  in  the  crumbling  coats  of  arms, 
the  wavy,  tiled  roofs,  the  sinking  houses,  the  swing- 
ing lanterns  ;  above  all  in  the  gray  walls  of  the 
castle,  brightened  here  and  there  by  the  pure  discs 
of  a  rose  bush,  or  the  green  of  ivy. 

Froissart  has  a  very  pretty  story  —  and  a  strange 
story  too  —  to  tell  of  La  Reole.  He  says  that  Sir 
Walter  Manny  being  with  the  English  besieging 
it,  "  was  reminded  of  his  father ;  "  that  he  had 
heard  in  his  infancy  that  he  had  been  buried  there, 
or  in  that  neighborhood.  (Is  there  not  a  pleasant 
116 


Along  the  Garonne 

smack  about  that  "  was  reminded  of,"  and  that 
dubious  "  he  had  heard  in  his  infancy  "  ?)  The 
elder  Manny,  the  chronicler  explains,  had  unluck- 
ily wounded  to  death  in  a  tournament  at  Cambray 
a  Gascon  knight ;  and  by  way  of  penance  had 
agreed  to  go  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine  of  St. 
James  of  Compostella,  at  Santiago  in  Spain.  On 
his  return  he  passed  near  La  Reole,  and  hearing 
that  the  brother  of  the  King  of  France  was  besieg- 
ing it,  stayed  to  visit  him  ;  and  going  home  one 
night  from  the  royal  hotel  to  his  lodgings,  was  way- 
laid and  murdered.  The  Gascon's  kinsmen  were 
strongly  suspected  of  the  foul  deed  ;  but  they  were 
powerful,  "  and  none  took  the  part  of  the  Lord 
of  Manny."  So  he  was  buried  in  a  small  chapel 
outside  La  Reole ;  and  was  almost  forgotten  when 
his  son,  being  in  the  neighborhood,  raked  up  the 
old  story,  and  offered  a  reward  of  a  hundred  crowns 
to  any  one  who  could  show  him  the  grave.  This 
an  old  man  volunteered  to  do,  and  took  Sir  Walter 
to  a  tomb  which  was  further  identified  by  a  Latin 
inscription.  Thereupon,  the  son,  as  pious  as  brave 
—  a  subject  of  Queen  Philippa  of  Hainault,  I  fear, 
and  not  a  trueborn  Englishman,  though  he  died  in 
London,  was  buried  in  the  Charter  House,  and  left 
his  lands  "  on  either  side  of  the  sea  "  to  the  Earl 
117 


Along  the  Garonne 

of  Pembroke  —  had  the  remains  conveyed  to  Val- 
enciennes in  Hainault,  and  buried  there. 

And  so  the  story  ends.  But  is  it  not  a  quaint 
and  pretty  story,  and  does  it  not  smack  of  the 
times  when  the  knight  errant  was  one  day  tourney- 
ing at  Cambray,  and  the  next  kneeling  at  Santiago, 
and  on  the  third  was  waylaid  at  La  Reole  ?  And 
does  it  not  plaintively  suggest  how,  after  long  days 
of  waiting,  the  news,  still  dim  and  uncertain,  came 
through  to  the  quiet  castle  in  Hainault,  news  so 
dim,  so  uncertain,  that  the  good  son,  when  chance 
brought  him  to  the  scene  of  his  father's  death, 
could  but  faintly  remember  that  it  had  happened 
there  or  thereabouts  ? 

We  seemed  to  be  for  a  few  days  in  a  world  of 
dying  things.  If  La  Reole  was  old  and  decadent, 
and  showed  few  signs  of  former  strength,  the  next 
place  to  which  we  came  was  still  farther  gone  in 
decay.  Port  St.  Marie  is  a  straggling  town  lying 
low  in  a  bend  of  the  river.  Most  of  its  houses  — 
they  are  large,  with  heavy  doorways — are  built  in 
frameworks  of  wood  after  the  style  of  our  black 
and  white  houses,  and  have  the  spaces  between  the 
beams  filled  with  bricks  ;  long,  thin  bricks  of  close 
texture  and  the  old  Roman  shape,  set  sometimes 
on  end,  sometimes  lengthwise,  more  often  aslant ; 
118 


Along  the  Garonne 

any  way  so  that  they  may  fill  the  interstices.  A 
large  number  of  these  houses  are  of  three  stories  ; 
and  each  upper  story  projecting  two  or  three  feet 
beyond  the  one  below  it,  the  buildings  seem  really 
nodding  to  their  fall.  Many  were  empty,  with 
unglazed  windows,  and  flapping  shutters,  and  sink- 
ing corners ;  and  yet  the  stout  timbers,  seasoned 
perhaps  when  Simon  de  Montfort  was  governor  of 
Guienne  and  had  his  court  in  Bordeaux,  held  to- 
gether, and  bound  up  the  crumbling  clay.  Above 
one  door  ran  the  legend  "  Le  Couronne  dut  devoir" 
a  sufficiently  chivalrous  motto.  Above  others 
were  battered  stone  shields.  On  all  was  the 
stamp  of  assured  ruin.  Neglect  and  poverty  were 
written  large  everywhere.  Time  had  touched  the 
place  with  no  caressing  hand,  such  as 

Makes  old  bareness  picturesque, 
And  tufts  with  grass  a  feudal  tower, 

but  with  mean  and  sordid  fingers  ;  and  the  result 
was  pitifully  dreary.  It  made  our  hearts  ache. 
The  very  people  we  saw  in  the  streets  looked 
pallid  and  hopeless,  like  people  going  down  the  hill. 
Such  a  town,  so  desolate,  so  moribund,  does  not 
exist,  thank  heaven,  in  our  more  populous  Eng- 
land. Yet  in  our  way  we  enjoyed  it.  We  gloated 
119 


Along  the  Garonne 

with  something  of  the  zest  of  ghouls  over  its  decay, 
until  having  cloyed  our  souls  with  sadness,  we  got 
hurriedly  away  into  the  sunshine  and  the  fields, 
where  the  patient,  fawn-colored  oxen  were  drag- 
ging the  plough,  and  the  countryman  stood  leaning 
on  his  goad  to  see  us  pass  between  the  rows  of 
poplars.  No  doubt  he  thought  us  mad  to  be  toil- 
ing out  of  St.  Marie  with  our  faces  set  country- 
wards,  when  no  great  distance  off  lay  the  railway, 
which  would  take  us  in  a  few  hours  to  Bordeaux, 
to  the  delights  of  cafe  and  boulevard.  "  Oh  !  but 
they  are  droll,  these  English  ! " 

Any  one  leaving  St.  Marie  must  remark  a  sin- 
gular, conical  hill  which  rises  abruptly  from  the  plain 
before  him.  It  is  topped  by  a  wooden  steeple, 
while  the  dark  outlines  of  walls  and  towers  form  a 
crown  about  its  summit,  and  a  row  of  cypresses 
rising  solemnly  above  the  lower  buildings  impart 
something  of  mystery  to  the  place.  It  seemed  to 
me  like  nothing  so  much  as  Mont  St.  Michel.  In 
vain  we  ransacked  our  guide  books.  We  could 
find  no  word  of  this  fortress  town  which  looked 
down  on  road  and  river ;  only  in  our  map  we  dis- 
covered that  its  name  was  Clermont  Dessus. 
Nothing  daunted,  however,  we  discovered  a  field 
path,  and,  climbing  the  hill,  passed  through  a  ruined 
120 


Along  the  Garonne 

gateway  into  the  silence  of  the  place.  On  three 
sides  the  walls  were  yet  fairly  perfect,  and  within 
them  stood  some  fifty  houses,  many  in  ruins,  more 
empty,  a  few  inhabited.  The  floor  of  one  was  on 
a  level  with  the  roof  of  another,  and  the  only 
means  of  access  was  by  steep,  tortuous  alleys. 
The  church  had  been  partially  restored,  but  was 
old  and  still  bore  marks  of  violent  usage.  The 
graveyard  on  a  terrace  displayed  twenty-four 
cypresses,  and  an  ancient  stone  cross.  Above  all 
this  rose  the  ruins  of  a  castle,  smaller  than  that  at 
La  Reole  and  with  traces  of  more  recent  occupa- 
tion. Woodwork  and  iron  still  remained  adhering 
to  the  walls.  What,  we  wondered,  had  been  its 
history.  A  few  women  and  children  were  the 
only  human  creatures  it  held,  and  we  could  gather 
nothing  from  them  save  that  it  belonged,  or  had 
belonged,  to  the  "  Seigneur."  For  our  climb, 
however,  we  felt  amply  rewarded  by  the  view  over 
the  valley  of  the  Garonne,  and  so  ran  quickly 
down  the  hill  and  stepped  out  stubbornly  for  Agen, 
which  we  reached  after  twice  losing  our  way 
through  a  too  ardent  desire  to  cling  to  a  pleasant 
green  path  by  the  river. 

It  was  dark  when,  footsore  and  tired,  we  gained 
the  principal  street ;   and  we  failed  to  discover  our 
121 


Along  the  Garonne 

hotel.  "  Would  you  direct  us  to  the  Hotel  de  St. 
Jean  ?  "  I  asked  a  decent-looking  man  who  was 
passing. 

"  How,  monsieur  ?  "  he  replied,  after  so  long  a 
pause  that  I  feared  he  did  not  understand  me ; 
"  the  Hotel  de  St.  Jean  no  longer  exists.  It  has 
been  closed  a  year  and  more." 

We  looked  at  each  other  in  silent  disgust ; 
and  he  looked  at  us.  We  were  fairly  tired 
out.  "  Would  you  have  the  kindness,  then, 
to  tell  us  which  is  the  best  hotel  ?  "  I  said  with 
resignation. 

"  I  will  conduct  you  to  the  Hotel  de  St. ," 

he  answered,  quickly.  "  It  is  an  hotel  of  the  first 
class." 

But  when  I  saw  the  Hotel  de  St. ,  we 

knew  him  for  a  swindler.  It  was  a  miserable 
place,  and  we  would  have  none  of  it.  We  cour- 
teously said  that  we  did  not  like  it.  He  insisted. 
We  broke  away  from  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
came  upon  the  Hotel  de  St.  Jean,  its  doors  open  to 
welcome  us,  and  the  light  pouring  ruddily  from  its 
windows.  The  story  is  trivial :  I  tell  it  because  it 
was  my.  ill-luck  more  than  once  to  fall  into  the 
hands  of  this  kind  of  tout,  and  be  deceived  by  the 
tale  that  the  house  to  which  I  had  been  advised  to 
122 


Along  the  Garonne 

go  was  shut.  On  one  occasion,  at  Guelmah,  in 
Algeria,  I  was  lured  while  inquiring  for  the  Hotel 
d'Orient  into  the  Hotel  Auriol,  a  miserable  place. 
In  the  morning  I  looked  out  of  my  window,  and 
to  my  astonishment  saw  the  name  of  the  hotel  in 
which  I  believed  myself  to  be  staring  me  in  the 
face,  painted  up  in  large  letters  over  the  door  of  a 
house  on  the  farther  side  of  the  square.  I  rubbed 
my  eyes  and  wondered,  and  it  was  not  until  I 
stood  in  the  open,  and  read  the  name  of  one  and 
the  other,  that  I  recognized  with  a  hearty  laugh 
how  I  had  been  taken  in. 

From  Agen,  on  a  fine,  sunny  morning,  we  went 
by  rail  to  Moissac.  Here,  attached  to  the  church, 
is  the  most  delightful  cloister  in  the  world,  a  cloi- 
ster rich  in  arches  and  capitals  of  delicate  tracery 
poised  on  slender  shafts,  and  half  hidden  by  luxu- 
riant creepers,  through  which  the  light  falls  soft 
and  green-tinged,  as  in  some  sea-grotto.  It  is  a 
place  for  rest  and  reflection,  perfectly  adapted  to  a 
hot  climate  ;  whereas,  he  who  has  only  seen  the 
dull,  dank  portico  enclosing  danker  grave-stones, 
the  play-ground  of  cats  —  which  in  England  we 
call  a  cloister  —  does  not  know  what  the  thing  is. 
This  church  boasted  also  a  quaint  doorway  en- 
riched with  the  more  or  less  coarse  designs  in 
123 


Along  the  Garonne 

which  the  monks  of  yore  took  pleasure :  a  door- 
way reputed  to  be  one  of  the  most  curious  in 
France, 

From  Moissac  we  went  on  foot  to  Castel  Sarra- 
sin,  sometimes  by  the  Tarn,  but  for  the  most  part 
by  the  side  of  the  great  canal ;  and  always,  whether 
by  the  latter  or  the  river,  moving  in  a  soft  sym- 
phony of  various  greens,  green  streams,  green 
poplars  —  and  oh  !  such  vistas  of  them  !  —  green 
willows,  green  banks  —  all  mingled  together  and 
fading  into  one  another,  and  harmoniously  blending 
as  the  evening  fell  with  the  pale  pea-green  of  the 
eastern  sky.  It  was  a  peaceful  and  silent  walk 
through  a  world  of  restful  hues. 

From  Castel  Sarrasin,  once  no  doubt  a  strong- 
hold of  the  Moors,  to  Montauban  we  went  by 
train.  Montauban,  on  the  Tarn,  is  a  busy  place, 
but  a  picturesque  one  also.  Standing  on  a  rough, 
steep  hill,  the  town  is  seamed  and  cleft  by  strange, 
deep  valleys  with  precipitous  sides.  Crazy  houses 
with  roofs  of  tiles,  so  time-stained  that  they  have 
the  precise  appearance  of  strips  of  bark,  fill  these 
ravines  and  lean  against  their  walls.  Gardens 
cling  to  the  ledges  of  the  rocks.  Shrubs  and 
flowers  clothe  the  crannies.  Wooden  balconies 
hang  everywhere  —  and  clothes-lines.  We  were 
124 


Along  the  Garonne 

there  on  market-day,  and  watched  with  amusement 
the  teams  of  oxen  —  all  fawn-colored  —  coming 
in  for  sale,  or  dragging  into  town  the  lumbering 
carts  (much  like  timber-wagons,  with  boxes  about 
the  middle)  in  which  Madame  sat  with  her  pro- 
duce about  her.  Monsieur  walked  before  the 
oxen,  his  goad  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  white  night- 
cap on  his  head.  Oxen  push,  they  do  not  pull. 
They  shove  inwards  against  one  another,  the  near 
legs  of  the  near  ox  and  the  off  legs  of  the  off  ox 
being  protruded  at  a  considerable  angle  to  get  a 
good  purchase.  Very  frequently  only  the  feet  so 
used  are  shod.  The  driver  always  goes  before 
them,  and  as  they  follow  with  lowered  heads,  they 
are  perfect  images  of  patient  resignation. 

An  old  farmer,  stout  and  jolly-looking,  presently 
met  us  loitering  on  the  bridge,  and  after  a  long 
period  of  staring,  spoke  to  us.  "  Are  you  Ger- 
mans ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,"  I  replied  with  courteous  determination, 
"  we  are  English."  He  still  eyed  us  with  some 
suspicion,  and  after  a  pause  fell  to  questioning  us 
about  our  country.  Had  we  bread,  and  what  kind 
of  bread  ?  had  we  any  railways  ? 

"Yes,"  I  answered  proudly  to  this  last,  "we 
have  trains  that  travel  at  the  rate  of  a  hundred  kllo- 
I2S 


Along  the  Goronne 

metres  an   hour  !  "     A  trifling  exaggeration  it  may 
be,  but  human  and  pardonable. 

He  gravely  nodded  his  head,  however,  as  if  he 
believed  it,  and  meant  to  pose  his  wife  and  neigh- 
bors with  it  when  he  reached  home.  "  You  have 
grapes  and  wine  ?  "  he  continued. 

"We  grow  grapes  under  glass,"  I  explained, 
"in  glass  houses.  In  the  open  air  it  is  generally 
too  cold  for  them." 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed,  his  jovial  face  clouding 
over  as  it  occurred  to  him  that  I  was  not  in  ear- 
nest. "Will  you  kindly  say  that  again  ?" 

I  did  as  he  wished.  But  when  I  had  made  the 
matter  as  clear  as  I  could,  he  answered  stoutly, 
"  No  !  It  is  impossible  !  Either  I  do  not  under- 
stand you,  or  you  do  not  understand  me !  "  And 
he  went  on  his  way  in  a  passion.  He  could  be- 
lieve in  the  Irish  Mail;  but  the  cultivation  of  vines 
under  glass  was  a  thing  outside  his  ideas  of  the 
world's  economy. 

From  the  place  at  Montauban,  an  open  space 
pleasantly  laid  out  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  it  is 
said  that  the  Pyrenees  can  be  seen  on  a  fine  day. 
We  had  a  fine  day,  but  we  saw  no  sign  of  the 
mountains  —  our  land  at  Beulah  —  though  we 
looked  long  and  lingeringly. 
126 


Along  the  Garonne 

Attracted  by  a  name  which  seemed  familiar  to 
us,  and  had  a  ring  about  it  as  of  feudal  and  knightly 
times,  we  made  a  diversion  from  here  to  Cahors 
on  the  Lot,  an  old  city  standing  in  a  fertile  basin, 
among  bare,  brown  hills.  We  were  disappointed 
in  the  first  appearance  of  the  town.  The  river 
still  runs  round  three  sides  of  it,  but  the  ramparts 
have  been  turned  into  gardens  where  they  have  not 
been  levelled  ;  only  one  tower  of  the  castle  sur- 
vives ;  and  though  there  are  some  picturesque 
houses,  the  town  is  for  the  most  part  modern,  and 
devoted  to  Gambetta  who  was  born  in  it.  The 
cathedral,  surmounted  by  one  heavy  tower,  backed 
by  three  domes  in  a  row,  is  imposing  in  its  bulky 
ugliness.  Its  floor  is  much  lower  than  the  market- 
place without :  so  that  on  entering  through  the 
west  door  you  find  a  flight  of  steps  before  you,  and 
the  congregation  at  your  feet  immersed  in  candle- 
lit gloom.  These  steps  at  the  Sunday  morning 
service  were  crowded  by  kneeling  hucksters  and 
market-women  with  their  baskets,  who  had  quietly 
entered  as  a  matter  of  course  from  the  market, 
which  was  in  full  swing  without,  and  were  de- 
voutly telling  their  beads,  or  listening  to  a  sermon 
preached  by  a  bishop  —  a  Count-Bishop,  too, 
whose  pastoral  ring  was  still  a  prominent  feature 
127 


Along  the  Garonne 

in  the  scene,  so  skilfully  did  he  wave  and  display 
it.  At  Cahors  we  were  much  pleased  with  one  of 
the  bridges,  from  which  rise  three  Flemish-looking 
towers.  They  form  as  many  gateways,  and  from 
every  point  of  view  are  singularly  picturesque. 
This  bridge  may  have  stood  there  in  its  present 
state  when  Henry  of  Navarre  did  at  Cahors  his 
most  famous  deed.  A  strong  garrison  was  at  the 
time  holding  the  city  for  the  Catholic  party,  but 
Henry,  smarting  under  the  loss  of  La  Reole,  which 
had  been  betrayed  by  its  governor,  determined  to 
seize  Cahors.  Accordingly  he  came  to  it  with 
fourteen  hundred  men,  and  leaving  one  half  of  this 
force  outside  to  cover  his  night  attack,  blew  in  a 
gate  with  a  petard  and  entered  with  the  rest,  being 
himself  the  seventh  to  pass  in.  A  furious  battle 
in  the  streets  ensued,  but  when  day  broke,  the 
Huguenots  had  mastered  a  small  part  of  the  city 
only,  and  reinforcements  for  the  enemy  arriving, 
Henry's  followers  begged  him  to  retire.  "  No  !  " 
he  answered,  fighting  on  with  his  back  to  a  shop, 
"  I  will  not  retire  !  My  only  retreat  from  this 
town  shall  be  the  retreat  of  my  soul  from  my 
body  !  "  He  kept  his  word.  Street  by  street  and 
house  by  house,  he  reduced  the  town,  neither  side 
asking  or  giving  quarter.  But  it  was  not  until  the 
128 


Along  the  Garonne 

fifth  night  after  his  entrance  that  he  completely 
mastered  the  place,  a  feat  which  is  generally 
allowed  to  stand  highest  among  his  warlike 
exploits. 

At  Cahors  it  was  that  we  first  came  under  the 
influence  of  his  name  ;  but  thereafter  it  grew  and 
grew,  a  bigger  factor  in  the  past,  a  more  prominent 
object  in  our  thoughts  in  the  present,  the  farther 
south  we  travelled ;  until  at  Pau,  his  birthplace 
and  capital,  the  son  of  Jeanne  d'Albret,  the  B'ear- 
nais,  the  Navarrese,  the  Protector  of  the  Religion, 
Henri  Quatre,  Henry  the  Great,  seemed  to  fill  all 
past  history,  and  dwarf  all  other  figures.  We  have 
in  English  story  no  royal  personage,  no  prominent 
life  even,  at  once  so  picturesque,  so  rich  in  sur- 
prises, so  lovable,  and  so  blameworthy.  Hot- 
blooded  and  cool-headed,  daring  to  rashness,  astute 
to  meanness,  a  professor  and  a  profligate,  merciful, 
affectionate,  yet  letting  nothing  intervene  between 
him  and  his  aims  —  who  that  is  man  shall  judge 
him  ?  Surely  the  wine  which  Henry's  father 
raised  to  his  new-born  lips,  the  cold  water  which 
was  dashed  in  his  hour-old  face,  the  national  song 
his  mother  sang  at  his  birth,  did  really  reproduce 
themselves  in  his  life. 

Leaving  Cahors  in  the  evening,  we  slept  at  a 
9  129 


Along  the  Garonne 

small  village  called  Lelbenque,  and  were  on  foot 
before  eight  next  day,  and  on  our  way  across  the 
hills  to  Caylus.  The  country  through  which  we 
passed  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  a  range  of  bleak 
lime-stone  heights  sparsely  covered  with  oak  trees, 
seemed  thinly  peopled,  and  little  tilled.  Here  and 
there  in  the  wooded  depths  of  a  valley,  we  came 
upon  a  sparkling  brook  and  a  few  comfortable 
farm-houses  nestling  among  fruit  trees,  and  pro- 
tected by  abrupt  limestone  walls  from  the  cold 
winds  which  swept  across  the  uplands.  The  dis- 
tance to  Caylus  was  sixteen  miles.  There  were 
no  inns,  and  as  we  had  breakfasted  rather  meagrely 
on  coffee  and  bread,  we  were  driven  to  beg  some- 
thing at  one  of  the  farm-houses.  There  were  only 
women  at  home,  and  these  were  with  reason  as- 
tonished to  see  foreign  tramps  in  that  out-of-the- 
way  district.  They  seemed  even  a  little  afraid  of 
us,  but  we  got  what  we  wanted  notwithstanding 
the  growling  of  the  dogs  ;  and  our  offer  of  pay- 
ment was  declined  with  suspicious  abruptness.  I 
fancy  that  they  suspected  us  of  wanting  change. 

About  mid-day  we  passed  over  the  last  ridge  of 
the   uplands,   and   saw  below   us   a   narrow  fertile 
valley  squeezed  in  between  mountain-walls.     Half- 
way through  this  gorge  and   in  the  middle  of  it,  a 
130 


Along  the  Garonne 

hill  or  rock  rose  abruptly  almost  to  the  height  of  a 
thousand  feet.  On  this,  lording  it  over  the  road, 
stood  Caylus,  its  houses  and  gardens  descending 
terrace  by  terrace  from  the  castle-nucleus  on  the 
crest  almost  to  the  road.  Very  old  was  the  church, 
about  the  porch  of  which  are  carved  green  animals 
in  the  act  of  nibbling  one  another's  tails  under  the 
superintendence  of  St.  Michael.  We  took  it  for 
St.  Michael.  Old,  too,  seemed  the  great  stone 
house  opposite,  known  as  the  Maison  du  Loup,  and 
bearing  uncouth  masks  and  figures  of  wolves  in 
high  relief  on  its  front.  Older  still  we  judged  the 
market-place  to  be,  which  built  of  wood  rests  on 
stone  pillars  ;  and  the  heavy  Arcade  or  u  Row  " 
which  stands  in  the  same  tiny  square  with  it, 
and  the  beetle-browed  wynds  that  lead  to  it  — 
all  old,  gray,  heavy,  time-stained,  but  still  solid. 
In  the  market  hall  we  noticed  three  ancient  corn- 
measures  ;  hollows  scooped  out  in  stones  that 
formed  part  of  the  fabric  of  the  hall,  with  to  each 
a  horizontal  outlet  or  spout  at  the  side,  through 
which  the  grain  when  measured  might  escape  into 
bag  or  basket.  Even  while  we  were  examining 
these  we  remarked  women  sitting  outside  the 
doors  about  us,  removing  the  grain  from  stalks  of 
maize,  and  plaiting  various  articles  with  the  straw. 


Along  the  Garonne 

The  weather-beaten  castle  belongs  to  Madame 
St.  Cyr,  but  was  occupied  when  we  visited  it  by 
Mr.  Wilton,  an  Englishman,  who  was  not  at  home. 
His  housekeeper,  however,  kindly  allowed  us  to  go 
over  the  building,  and  we  found  the  view  from  the 
leads  of  the  keep  —  used,  I  suspect,  as  a  smoking- 
room  —  very  charming.  Caylus,  to  sum  up,  is 
difficult  of  access  and  is  not  even  named  in 
"  Murray,"  but  I  can  highly  recommend  it  as  a 
quaint  example  of  a  mediaeval  town,  such  as  cannot 
now  be  found  in  England  without  much  searching. 

From  it  we  passed  by  means  of  a  top-heavy, 
jingling  country  coach  to  St.  Anthonin,  and  so  by 
rail  to  Albi  on  the  Tarn,  Albi  of  the  Albigenses, 
the  unhappy  sect  whose  fate  confutes  the  saying 
that  the  blood  of  martyrs  is  the  seed  of  the  church. 
About  Albi,  from  which  place  they  took  their 
name,  they  grew  and  flourished  in  the  latter  half 
of  the  twelfth  century.  But  seventy  years  later, 
notwithstanding  the  attempt  which  their  feudal 
lord,  Raymond  of  Toulouse,  made  to  protect  them, 
they  were  virtually  extinct.  Save  that  they  dis- 
sented from  the  Romish  Church,  their  very  doc- 
trines are  now  unknown  or  to  be  found  only  in 
the  writings  of  their  enemies,  and  their  story  and 
fortunes  are  too  often  confounded  with  those  of 
132 


Along  the  Garonne 

the  Waldenses.  Simon  de  Montfort,  the  father 
of  our  Simon  de  Montfort,  took  a  conspicuous 
part  in  the  cruel  deeds  which  attended  their  suppres- 
sion. At  the  fall  of  Beziers,  heretic  and  church- 
man were  put  to  the  sword  together.  "  Slay  all 
—  God  will  know  His  own,"  said  the  gentle 
Abbot  Arnold.  And  in  a  sense  wisely  :  for  it  is 
only  the  man  of  half  measures  who  fails  as  a  per- 
secutor. To  be  perfectly  ruthless,  perfectly  thor- 
ough in  the  work,  is  to  be  successful  also. 

At  any  rate  at  Albi,  which,  like  Cahors,  stands 
among  hills,  there  are  no  traces  of  the  Albigenses 
left ;  not  even  such  a  story  as  rings  about  the 
name  of  Beziers  with  fire.  Rather  the  great 
cathedral  proclaims  Rome's  victory.  Built  exter- 
nally of  bricks,  it  is  a  huge  blind  oblong  with  an 
apsidal  end.  A  swelling  base  and  rounded  but- 
tresses add  to  its  heavy  appearance.  Yet  it  is 
very  lofty.  The  monstrous  red  tower  hung  about 
with  giddy  balconies  rises  nearly  to  the  height  of 
three  hundred  feet,  while  the  church  itself,  the 
lower  part  of  which  has  no  openings  or  windows, 
seems  half  that  height.  In  a  word,  the  whole  is  as 
much  a  fortress  as  a  cathedral.  Lofty  flights  of 
steps  lead  to  a  raised  porch,  formed  by  three  arches 
decorated  with  carvings  lately  and  successfully  re- 
133 


Along  the  Garonne 

stored.  Entering  the  church  through  this  we  find 
the  interior  a  striking  sight.  In  shape  it  is  a  vast 
hall  surrounded  by  chapels  in  two  stories,  and 
with  a  choir  screened  off  at  one  end.  The  in- 
terior still  remains  in  the  state  to  which  our  Puri- 
tans objected,  the  state  probably  characterized  more 
churches  than  we  now  imagine.  It  is  covered 
from  ceiling  to  floor  with  frescoes  and  paintings 
and  scrollwork,  some  gaudy,  some  subdued,  some 
good,  some  bad.  The  very  statues  are  painted  and 
gilded,  and  although  here  and  there  the  effect  is 
garish  and  unpleasing,  I  do  not  agree  that  the 
appearance  of  the  whole,  as  the  vast  mass  of  color 
presents  itself  to  the  eyes,  broken  by  the  exquisite 
carvings  of  the  stone  screen  or  a  bevy  of  tinted 
marbles,  is  absolutely  unharmonious.  I  found  it 
more  pleasing  than  I  expected.  And  then  what 
would  have  been  the  effect  of  these  plain  walls  in 
their  naked  monotony  ? 

The  paintings  are  mainly  of  the  date  of  Francis 
I.,  say  about  1520.  Two  frescoes  of  Hell  and 
the  Passions,  done  by  Italian  artists,  cover  the  west 
end  —  cover  acres  of  it  as  it  seems;  and  in  a 
chapel,  among  other  anachronisms  is  a  notable 
picture  of  Christ,  in  which  He  is  figured  in  a  hat 
and  feather  and  the  dress  of  a  courtier  of  the  time 
'34 


Along  the  Garonne 

in  the  midst  of  Roman  soldiers  who  are  kicking 
Him  along.  A  great  store  of  information  as  to 
the  dresses  and  customs  of  the  early  part  of  the 
sixteenth  century  is  laid  up  here,  to  be  ransacked 
by  any  one  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  closely  in- 
spect this  huge  interior.  The  groups  painted  upon 
the  walls,  groups  of  people  fighting,  tourneying, 
feasting,  dancing,  dying — ay,  and  doing  many 
things  scarcely  adapted  to  church  decoration  —  are 
to  be  counted  by  thousands  ;  as  are  the  gold  stars 
that  stud  the  bright  blue  ceiling.  There  is  some- 
thing suggestive  in  the  portrayal  of  these  things  in 
this  place  ;  they  seem  to  tell  of  a  faith  which,  with 
all  its  scandals,  abuses,  and  laxity,  was  bound  up 
intimately  with  the  life  of  the  people,  with  their 
joys  as  well  as  their  griefs;  and  so  smacked  of 
One  who  did  not  consider  the  price  of  sparrows  as 
beneath  knowledge. 

At  any  rate  we  were  pleased  with  these  things. 
The  interior  of  Albi  Cathedral  may  not  be  in  the 
best  taste.  It  may  be  meretricious,  it  may  be  gilt 
rather  than  of  gold.  But  it  is  curious ;  it  is  almost 
unique;  it  is  a  museum  in  itself;  and  to  an  Eng- 
lishman accustomed  to  the  cold  if  correct  lines  of 
a  Gothic  church,  its  warmth  and  color  afford  a  not 
unwelcome  change. 

135 


Along  the  Garonne 

At  Auch  we  arrived  at  night,  and  found  it  to  be 
an  old-fashioned  archiepiscopal  city  on  the  summit 
and  southern  slope  of  a  precipitous  hill.  Here  we 
came  upon  the  first  traces  —  a  Spanish  pedler,  a 
Navarrese  bonnet  —  of  that  strange  borderland  be- 
tween Spain  and  Western  France  in  which  three 
languages  and  a  dozen  patois,  French,  Spanish, 
Basque,  the  Langue  d'Oc,  the  Langue  d'Or,  and 
Gascon  and  Provencal  and  the  tongue  of  Andorra, 
and  I  know  not  what  others,  are  fighting  for  the 
mastery  :  where  two  great  nations  now  peaceably 
march,  dividing  between  them  the  wild  country 
where  the  kingdom  of  Navarre  once  sat  enthroned 
on  hills  with  the  free  Basque  communities  about 
her.  It  is  a  country  rich  in  memories  of  indepen- 
dence, of  strife  ;  of  brigandage,  of  romance;  of  the 
free  life  of  the  hunter  ;  a  land  of  snow-clad  peaks 
and  deep  valleys,  and  rolling,  wooded  hills  full  of 
creatures  elsewhere  extinct,  bears,  and  izards,  and, 
shall  I  add,  Basques.  Here  are  Roncesvalles  and 
the  Bidassoa,  Fontarabia  and  Orthez,  San  Sebastian 
and  the  Isle  of  Peacocks.  Moor  and  Paladin, 
Scot  and.  Spaniard,  Charlemagne  and  Wellington, 
have  all  passed  this  way  and  left  deep  foot-prints. 

And  Auch  stands  on  the  verge  of  this  strange 
country  ;  an  old  city,  but  full  of  energy  and  with 
136 


Along  the  Garonne 

no  trace  of  decay.  From  the  river,  flights  of  wide 
steps  with  spacious  landings,  gay  with  flowers  and 
fountains,  climb  the  southern  face  of  the  hill, 
which  the  best  road-maker  would  find  impracti- 
cable. At  the  head  of  these  steps  and  command- 
ing extensive  prospects  stands  the  cathedral,  a 
beacon  to  all  the  country  between  it  and  the  skirts 
of  the  mountains.  The  building  is  fine,  but  its 
pride  lies  in  the  wood  carvings  of  the  unrivalled 
choir.  My  guide,  an  ex-soldier,  also  pointed  out 
with  pride  some  cymbals  presented  to  the  cathedral 
by  the  first  Napoleon  :  trophies,  so  he  told  me,  of 
the  Egyptian  campaign. 

We  wandered  out  in  the  afternoon  to  the  brow 
of  a  ridge  of  hills  lying  on  the  far  side  of  the  river, 
and  throwing  ourselves  down  upon  some  heather 
and  bracken — it  was  a  warm  and  sunny  but  not 
very  clear  day  —  began  to  cast  speculative  glances 
towards  Spain.  But  while  we  thought  that  we  were 
looking  southwards  our  eyes  were  really  turned  too 
much  to  the  east.  And  presently  we  discovered 
this  in  a  strange  way.  For  glancing  by  chance 
towards  the  skyline  on  our  right,  we  saw,  first,  a 
brown  autumnal  landscape  of  woods  and  hills,  and 
beyond  this  a  long,  gray  cloud,  the  horizon,  as  we 
thought  ;  and  above  that  —  ah !  what  was  it  we 
137 


Along  the  Garonne 

saw  above  that  ?  A  line  of  silvery  peaks,  gleam- 
ing in  a  gray,  sheeny  atmosphere  of  their  own,  so 
pure,  so  soft,  so  far  above  this  world  of  ours,  that 
as  the  words  "  The  Pyrenees  !  "  broke  the  first 
moments  of  astonished  silence,  we  felt  that  for 
once  the  thing  long  looked  for  had  passed  our  ex- 
pectations! Our  hearts  fastened  upon  the  distance. 
The  pleasant  landscape  spread  out  before  us  lost 
its  charms.  It  was  homely,  it  was  flat,  it  was 
commonplace,  it  was  of  the  earth  earthy,  beside 
the  serene  beauty  of  the  snowy  crests  and  un- 
trodden wastes  that  shone  and  sparkled  in  that  far 
distance,  and  anon  grew  cold  and  dim  as  the  veil 
of  cloud  was  drawn  before  them  even  while  we 
watched. 

When  they  were  gone,  we  felt  that  nothing  save 
the  mountains  would  now  satisfy  us.  We  had  a 
craving  for  them,  such  as  I  have  sometimes  felt 
for  the  sea.  A  sudden  conviction  that  we  were 
wasting  our  time  in  a  world  of  small  things,  while 
the  wonders  of  the  hills  lay  close  at  hand,  over- 
whelmed us.  We  hurried  homewards,  talking  of 
peaks,  and  glaciers,  and  passes,  of  Cauteret  and 
Gavarnie,  Mont  Perdu  and  the  Pic  du  Midi  ;  and 
packed  in  the  same  state  of  pleasant  excitement. 
The  next  morning  saw  us  passing  through  the 
138 


Along  the  Garonne 

same  country,  rich  in  autumn  tints,  in  leafy 
bottoms,  and  rippling  streams,  which  we  had  seen 
stretched  out  before  us.  And  the  evening  saw  us 
stand  on  the  famous  Place  Royale,  hard  by  the 
castle  where  Henry  of  Navarre  was  born,  feasting 
our  eyes  on  the  cold,  bright  tints  of  the  great 
mountains,. seen  sharp  and  clear  above  the  Jurance 
hills,  and  listening  to  the  rushing  waters  of  the 
Gave.  Our  Garonne  pilgrimage  was  over. 


M 


